Undertow
by SurelyForth
Summary: The saga of Warden-Commander Brand Cousland six years after the end of the Blight as she confronts a love lost and the potential destruction of all she holds dear. Cousland/Exiled Alistair w. Cousland/Anders Rated M for violence and adult themes.
1. Revelry

BioWare is the creator of 99% of the Characters, Concepts, Places, Names and Mild Swears that are featured in this tale. I thank them for their wonderful universe and their willingness to let hacks like me poke at it with knives or, rather, my own clumsy fingers.

* * *

It was Satinalia.

The public house overflowed with inebriated revelers, so much so that the front door could not be closed and the guest rooms on the lower level were in use as extensions of the main bar. Sailors and mercenaries sprawled alongside one another on beds stripped of quilts and linens while vanity tops sagged under the weight of empty tankards and tipsy lasses set on display.

_They _were just another couple enjoying the festivities. They stumbled against walls and over pavers, they stood too close together and laughed too loudly. When an amply bosomed, under-garbed wench approached them, cerulean eyes full of carnal promise, the man was inclined to set aside their evening plans and see what might unfold here. Only his partner, tugging his hand with faux playfulness, could dissuade such prurient interest.

"Oww! My shoulder. You didn't have to pull it out of the socket, you know."

"Oh, go heal yourself."

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy? You would have been included, I promise."

They pushed through the crowd, clinging to one another like lovers afraid to part. As the drunken crowd was more inclined towards belligerence than grace, their progress was slow. The woman took to throwing a few well-placed elbows. She knew exactly where to strike and how to make the movement deft to the point of invisibility. The strategy helped and soon they were climbing a narrow flight of stairs that would lead them to the back rooms.

They found the door that was the final obstacle between them and their ultimate goal. She quietly tested the handle while he leaned in to block any view one might have of her hands. He wore furs, leathers and glorified rags all cinched and connected by a complicated system of belts and clasps. A golden helm, complete with two dangerously pointed horns, finished his barbarian king look. She was in head to toe purple, glittering plates affixed to her shins and stomach. Her face was obscured by an elaborate dragon mask.

"My lady! You look good enough to slay."

"That's _Commander_ my lady."

"And here I was hoping we could give up the pretense, just for one night."

A suspicious sailor, ale dribbling down his flowered dress, lurched towards them and the man leaned in to nuzzle the woman's neck; just an amorous couple of drunks taking advantage of a free flat surface. _He's taking this too far._She thought about it a few seconds longer than necessary before shaking him off_._His hazel eyes glinted with mischief, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

"I look forward to my dressing down."

After the sailor moved on the woman tried at the handle again, matching her partner's smile as they fell into the larder. Their victory was quite temporary. Greeting them was the sight of two…the pair cocked their heads simultaneously…

"Do you think they're _actually_ dressed as nugs, or are we just inferring that because a chubby, naked…"

"Please stop. I really don't want to think about it."

"Suit yourself. Hmm. I guess there really _is_ someone out there for everyone."

There was no way to distract the couple writhing, enthusiastic and oblivious, on the trap door that lead to the smuggler's tunnel beneath the city. The pair exchanged harried looks.

"It seems our spot is taken."

"We can always join them, might be fun. I mean, you never know. _They're_ obviously having a good time."

"I'm going to pass. I think there's an abandoned house that would provide a bit more privacy."

Grabbing his hand again, the woman pulled her barbarian king through the bar one last time_. If we're lucky, we'll beat the guards on rounds._She looked back and saw that he was enjoying being hauled through a crowd with such purpose, a smug smile plastered on his face as if to announce their intentions to everyone in the room.

They spilled onto the street, the air damp and cool compared to the overstuffed tavern they'd just vacated. The evening was lit by weak lamplight and the handheld lanterns carried by the passing night guard.

"We have to get well ahead of the city's men. They have a tendency to dawdle by the gate."

"Are you saying we should run? _That_ wouldn't look suspicious at all."

"Such cheek! If you want me to do _that_, you'll have to catch me first...if you can."

With that, the woman in the dragon mask set off into the night. Her companion remained rooted, momentarily stunned by her parting words.

"What are ya waitin' for? Catch her, boy, or one of us will." A mustachioed guardsman urged the man with an explicit gesture. Right, of course.

"Of course!" He took off after his prey, blood roaring in his ears. He lacked her speed and dexterity, but he had other ways to cut the distance. Hands tingling, he pushed through a group congregated near the Chantry. It parted easily, those closest to him jumping with widened eyes. The shock he administered was mild at best, definitely nothing to get excited about, but to a person compromised by a goodly amount of alcohol and other debauched behaviors it was enough to repulse them and give him a clear shot through.

If his partner sensed her companion's unfair advantage, she gave no indication. Almost to the gate, she slid into a shadowed recess in the city wall to evade the notice of the soldier on guard. It would be best if they passed him together rather than just careening by one after another with the hope that he'd be fooled by their forced merriment. _Not so forced._ The woman was taking deep breaths, less for the air and more for control. It had been a while since she had done anything this brazen. She'd forgotten what it felt like to be on this side of the law- the heady rush of...

"Caught you."

He came from behind _how in the Maker's name?_and grabbed her waist. She pulled from his hold and spun to face him, unnerved by the way his hands felt so familiar.

"So, what _exactly_ does this cheeky young man get for his troubles?"

"A swift kick to the..."

"My _lady_! You know I can't give in so easily. Fair turnabout and all that."

It was his turn to bolt. Far quicker on the uptake, she sprinted after him and practically tackled him just outside the city gates. She glimpsed the soldier from the corner of her eye as he shook his head in amusement at their game. Emboldened, she vaulted onto her companion's back. Even caught by surprise, he was able to hold his stride with the extra weight bearing on him.

"Do you remember where to go?"

"Only too well. Hopefully they haven't sealed the door."

"They haven't. The Arlessa has somehow managed to divert those funds for the past four years."

It was a hovel on the edge of town, a burnt out shell amongst burnt out shells. Anyone, anything, could be within its crumbling walls, so it was best to be on guard. The woman slid from her perch and reached behind to the small of her back. Two daggers were sheathed there, and Maker save the soul of any who forced her to use them.

The couple crept through a fractured doorway, entering a tiny room that was empty save for a large crate of straw and a pile of iron scraps. The woman poked at them with the toe of her boot. It looked like darkspawn craft. She bit back a wave of revulsion. _Best not to think about that._ The quarry this evening was nothing if not human.

Their prize was in the corner of the tiny shack, a door obscured under more straw. The man kneeled to grasp the handle, but paused before lifting it.

"Are you _sure_ you can still trust him? Even _I_ know not to meddle in the affairs of the Crows..."

The woman closed her eyes, transported to a month earlier, although it seemed much more time than that had passed since she had seen her Zevran.

"Always with the "my Zevran." It makes me guilty to be with others, the way you claim me so." His eyes danced when he said this. "Only _you_could get away with making me feel such a tiresome emotion."

They were having lunch on the northern balcony of Vigil's Keep. It afforded her a rare amount of privacy- the sole entrance was a heavy wooden door and no windows overlooked it. As Warden-Commander, Brand Cousland was very much the center of life at the Keep and, to her eternal chagrin, her affairs were over-attended and much discussed amongst the staff. She was under even closer scrutiny now; those who knew of Zevran's _associations_ regarded his arrival warily. It had been nearly three years since he had suddenly resigned as Brand's second, with the open intent of dealing with his former employers.

"I have been in Ferelden for several months, attending to, ah, personal business," the way his face slid towards worry bothered Brand. He corrected his expression and continued, "I came to _you_ with news of a most interesting request."

"Request?" Brand did not trust his choice of word. He laughed at her suspicion.

"I forget how well you know me. It is a rare luxury to be amongst trusted friends and I have become used to caution first and self-preservation foremost." Zevran said this with practiced glibness, but Brand detected bitterness beneath the surface. She wanted to hug him, to ask why he'd really left. Had he not been happy helping her, helping the Wardens? The Crows should not have held any hold over him and yet...

"I was personally requested for this contract. I know the lay of the land, as you say, and was chosen for both my familiarity with local custom and my sway with certain important persons in the area." Zevran spun the details as he knew them, painstakingly laying out the trap he would set for the mark and finishing with a shrug. "So I turned it down."

"You _what_? Do you have that authority?"

"I...did not wish to speak to you of this, but I feel I owe you an explanation, at the very least." The way his voice faltered put her on edge.

"I've told you this before, Zevran, whatever you owed me, if you ever owed me anything, was more than repaid during the Blight. To say nothing of your contributions to _this_," Brand gestured to the Vigil. Zevran frowned gravely and shook his head.

"It was not fair to leave you so suddenly, not after…but it was necessary. The Crows had tracked me to Amaranthine. There was no guarantee they would not attack me here and perhaps, in the process, fulfill some older contracts along the way. Two birds, you know...hmm. That turn of phrase works exceptionally well, considering we have both worked for the order..." He blinked, realizing that he was rambling. The next part came out quickly, "I did not want you to come to harm, so I left to do what I thought needed to be done."

Brand sat in silence. _I did not want you to come to harm._ For Zev, that was an incredible admission and her heart ached for her friend. In that moment she had wanted so badly to go back in time, to make him tell her the truth before he left...they could have taken on the Crows together. How difficult could it have been, really? Maybe then he could have stayed with her in Amaranthine and not become yet another companion moved on without her. Instead of saying this, knowing it would only twist the knife and to no benefit, she nodded. "And? You're obviously still involved with them, since you're getting contracts."

Zev smiled a cruel little smile; his eyes glittered coldly. "I went to Antiva thinking I would take out one cell, maybe two. Make my point and die doing so. Instead, I ended up far more successful than I dared to dream."

"Oh, Zevran. Please tell me that they surrendered." Brand could not conjure a fate for her Zevran worse than what he was admitting. After what they had done to him, after what he had become with her. "Please tell me it's finally over and you are free of them for good. _Please._"

"I am sorry, my dear Brandelyn. You are looking at the newest leader of the Antivan Crows," his golden eyes darkened, the edges of his mouth turning down sharply as his voice lowered. "And how proud he is to be it."

In the present, Brand was crushed anew by Zevran's admission.

"Commander? Did you hear what I asked?"

"Of course…of course I trust him. And it's not the Crows who we should be worried about, but those who tried to hire them."

The man hesitated one last time before pulling the door up with a practiced jerk. Standing aside, he threw his arm out in an inviting gesture.

"Since you're so certain, then by all means. Ladies first."

They descended.


	2. Repulsion

The Grey Wardens had discovered the tunnel beneath Amaranthine during the darkspawn attacks. The passage ran from outside the fortified walls and below most of the city, intersecting a small cave that opened directly onto the Amaranthine Ocean. Industrious smugglers domesticated the space, building a dock and a few common areas, and Warden-Commander Brand Cousland imagined many a fortune had been made from black market goods that found their way into Ferelden at this very spot.

Nowadays, the cove was used only in emergencies and by those with connections to the City Guard. For the most part it remained empty. And dark. Brand stayed close to the mage who had joined her for the evening's illicit activities. Fearing it would be a dead giveaway on their undercover mission, Anders had left his staff behind. Instead, he carried a slender stick that did little more than throw an insufficient amount of light from its tip.

"I _really_ want to make a smart comment about the size of your wand."

"Go ahead if you must, but it's only fair that you let me defend my honor."

"I imagine the defense you have in mind would break _so_ many rules of protocol."

"You know me too well."

They crept along the tunnel using the meager beam to guide their footsteps. Brand knew they were nearing the cove when she heard the sound of voices echoing off the cave walls.

"So, what 'appens if 'e just stays on the boat?"

"Don't know why he'd do that. What's the point of smuggling yourself into the country if you're not going to...enter the country?"

"Maybe 'e didn't want to be smuggled. Did you ever think of that?"

"If that's the case, why's anyone want him dead? If he's here against his will, I can't imagine he poses much of a threat."

"I guess it ain't really our job to worry about that, is it? We was told to kill 'im, and that's what I aim to do. I'd just rather take care of business out here, is all. Don't much feel like takin' this battle below deck."

"It'll be a while yet before the crew returns. They's probably drunker than anything right now. We got a bit of time, just...relax, would you? Bad enough I'm stuck here during all the celebrations, don't make it worse with your nattering."

There were only two of them. Brand's brow drew in concern. From what her contact told her, this operation should have required a bit more skilled help.

"Do you think there are more of them on the other side of the cove?"

"I vote that _you_ check. You being the ranking officer and all."

"Of course."

Brand slunk into the cave, staying close to the deep shadows along the back wall. Stealth was far from her specialty so it behooved her that the men she needed to evade seemed wholly focused on the sole ship moored in the cove. They were also clearly amateurs, sitting on crates with their weapons sheathed and their backs to her. It would be quite easy for her to run up behind them and simply..._Cool it with the bloodlust, Commander. You should make sure there aren't more waiting just out of sight before you do_ _something rash._

She made it to the other side of the cave without incident and took a few moments to explore the far tunnel. There were no lights, no voices. Not even the telltale sound of breathing and weapons rattling against armor. Her brain sounded the alarm. Something was clearly wrong here. Skittering back to Anders, the Commander ventured a bit closer to the hired men, hoping to make out their arms and armor in the faint moonlight that filtered in, reflected off the water's surface. A crest or coat of arms was unlikely but these men were obviously not the best money could buy. It would not surprise her at all if they had their affiliation stitched to their cloaks.

"Did you see anyone? Anything?"

"No. I don't know if that's good or bad. The men are nondescript, too- plain mail armor and standard-issue weapons."

"I suppose you want to go in, then."

"I suppose I do. Can you just...put them out of commission for me? I don't want to fight if we don't have to."

Anders passed the wand over to his Commander and followed her a short distance into the cove, just close enough to the hired men to get a fix. Positioned away from Brand, he waved his hands through the air, a spectral aura consuming his fingers as he concentrated on the spell that could put anyone within the target area into a near coma. Even though Brand had bore witness to this process a thousand times, Anders being one to whip out his powers at the drop of the hat (although at no one's command but hers), there was something about the way he could pull elements and states of being from the ether that was absolutely fascinating to observe.

The spell cast perfectly, the marks slipping forward against their knees in a deep slumber, and Anders motioned Brand ahead. He would stay by the tunnel, maintaining his spell and the lookout.

Brand rushed along the dock, trying not to notice the way it shook and moaned beneath her feet. The water below was not deep, but it was pitch black in the night and she'd no desire to find any part of herself beneath its inky surface.

Soon she was at the ship. It was small for a merchant's vessel _what did Zev call it? A caravel?_ and seemed a bit worse for the wear. With the gangplank pulled, Brand would have to make use of a flimsy rope ladder than dangled a few feet from the dock. She had no fear of heights, but the idea of entrusting her life to the stability of a few lengths of weathered rope was not an appealing one. With a reluctant sigh, she grabbed a rung and began the climb.

Pulling herself over the railing, Brand found herself confronted by the filthiest ship she'd ever seen. The uncertain moonlight illuminated a debris-strewn deck and piles of rotten containers limited walking space to a few narrow paths. And then there was the smell. Obviously, this vessel had been used to transport livestock; even in the open air, the stench of animal waste was enough to make her gag. Below deck would probably be unbearably fetid. _If Zevran was wrong about this, I might have to take out a contract of my own._

With one last breath of mostly fresh air, Brand ventured below. Despite the fact that it was filtering out some of the unpleasant odors, Brand removed the dragon mask she'd worn all evening. The chance of anyone on this foreign ship knowing her was non-existent, and she would require her full peripherals in these dark, unfamiliar corridors. Holding the wand aloft with one hand, she clutched a dagger in the other. It had its own light, an ethereal blue glimmering from runes imbedded in the dragonbone blade. Its weight was comforting as she shuffled forward, eyes darting constantly past the wand's dim glow, ears tuned for the sounds of guard dogs, sailors or unruly livestock.

It took her several minutes to search the length of the hull, pushing open doors and praying that no well-armed pirates lurked behind. It wasn't until she neared the last hold that her investigation yielded any results. As the door swung open with a barely audible creak, her light spilled into a tiny cabin containing a table, a pallet, and a man sleeping with his back to her. She quickly hid the wand beneath her cloak, and pulled out her second dagger. The pair of enchanted weapons would provide some illumination without startling the man from his sleep.

Moving with exceptional care, Brand entered the cabin and went straight for the table. It was built into the hull, and had a recessed rectangle near the back to place items inclined to roll while the boat heaved on the high seas. A scroll was tucked there and it bore a seal that she couldn't quite make out. Leaning over to examine further, dagger held close to the parchment, Brand nearly stabbed herself in the face when a large...thing...slammed into the back of her. Whatever it was, it hit with such force that she crashed against the desk, her left dagger flying out of her hand and the other hand sliding, mercifully, away from harming her.

The blow left her momentarily disoriented, face pressed against wood, but she could sense her attacker lunging after her dropped weapon. _Don't let him get that blade it would be very, very bad._ Bracing herself against the desk, she kicked her left foot into the darkness and connected with something. The man let out a guttural cry and landed with a thud. It gave her enough time to regain footing and get a better grip on her remaining dagger.

Even though she was upright, her vision tilted dangerously. _Back up against the wall. Use it for support, Brand. Don't let him knock you down again._ She moved back until her shoulder blades were flush with the wall, the dagger held aloft. For several seconds there was no noise or movement from the other side of the cabin. _Tell him you're here to save him...tell him what you should have said before you even entered his damn room._

"I know it seems unlikely," she spoke in a bare whisper that nonetheless seemed far too loud in the stark silence. "But there are two men waiting outside of the ship and they are going to kill you. Come with me, and you'll be safe."

The stillness continued unabated for nearly a minute. Brand measured her breaths, her mind clearing in the process. _Maybe you kicked him in the head. Maybe he's..._

The strike came out of nowhere, a flick at her wrist that snapped her hand open, leaving her unarmed. Without the dagger's glow, she had no point of reference. Sliding decidedly to her left, she heard the unmistakable sound of fists hitting wood as the man struck where she'd been standing just a second earlier. Knowing he'd need to recover from his failed attack, she sprung across the room, eyes searching the floor for the sapphire gleam of her dagger. _You left yourself open for this..._

His next punch hit its mark, a large fist striking just below her ribs and sending her stumbling towards the bed. Brand landed facedown and the reek of the bedclothes was overwhelming. _Get up get up get up._ She managed to roll over, and he came at her again. Their fight, already inelegant, devolved into the animalistic as he fell against her and pinned her arms over her head _he smells like Oghren after a bender_. She brought her knee up, connecting with his thigh. It was enough to throw him off balance and his hands lost their grip on her. With her arms freed she was able push against him, but he was remarkably strong and so very determined.

_You've killed how many dragons? A half-naked drunk should be no problem for you._ She shot her right arm out with as much force as she could muster. Had it connected, it would have probably done some damage. Instead he dodged and tilted face first against her left shoulder. She pulled it back, pressing as far into the straw filled mattress as she could, and pushed up against the man with her hips. Crying out, she then yanked him down and slammed her shoulder forward again. There was an audible crack on impact, and the man responded by biting _now Bryce be careful with Ser Pounce, you don't want him to bite at you_ his teeth tearing into the small gap between her throat and the collar of her padded undershirt and Anders's face flashed across her vision, his breath hot on her neck as he played the role of smitten lover to the hilt_._

With that sudden tip towards madness, Brand began to beat at the man's bared back and sides. Had she not been wearing gloves she could have sliced at him with her nails. Were she not so well trained, her fists would have done little damage. However, she was a warrior foremost and the blows she landed were precise enough that by the time she landed a knuckle out jab to his ribs, he loosened his grip on her neck and pulled back _do I see a white flag?_ blood and saliva oozing across her throat in his absence.

"I'm so sorry," the voice was rough as a cat's tongue yet held traces of true humanity. Brand vaulted forth, lashing out with a strength fed by pain and rage. The strike caught the man's jaw with a sickening crunch and he crashed to the floor. _I might end up collecting on this contract after all_.

With the mark at least temporarily dispatched, Brand collapsed back against the bed, trying to ignore the way her stomach signaled its disapproval of her actions _you're a soldier and a noblewoman not some carta thug how could you let this happen_ but failing as dry heaves racked her body. She could not remember a one on one fight ever feeling so visceral, so intimate. Memory seized her as she recalled the man's sinewy torso and arms. How could someone so emaciated be so powerful? Brand was accustomed to taking down healthy _can a darskpawn be healthy? _enemies nearly twice her size with ease. This one had fought like a caged and rabid animal.

_Maybe 'e didn't want to be smuggled. Did you ever think of that?_

Anders found the Commander still and contemplating, sprawled on a bed that smelt like death and twirling the wand he'd passed off to her. If he feared for her well-being, he kept that to himself.

"I thought you could use a hand, Commander."

"That seems to be about right. I could also use a stiff drink, a scorching bath and, perhaps, a handsome man in case the first two don't work."

"Why risk disappointment and waste time? I say try all three at once. Did I mention that I, too, appreciate fine spirits and am in need of a good soaking? Not to mention…handsome!"

"Thank you, Anders."

"Is that a commitment?"

"No, it's a thank you. I got a little more than I bargained for here, and dragging this beast out is going to require a bit more finesse than I currently possess."

"So I have to work for it?"

"Always."


	3. CSI: Amaranthine

"He seems somewhat alive," Anders cocked his head and poked the unconscious man again.

Brand was not paying full attention to her fellow Warden, her focus on locating the twin daggers dropped during her brief, but intense, struggle with said unconscious man. "That assessment hardly sounds qualified, coming from a healer. I don't think I've ever heard Fiona use the phrase 'somewhat alive.'"

The mage chuckled at this. "You think I'm qualified? How _cute _you are." He studied his commander intently as she crawled beneath the narrow bed to retrieve one of her weapons. "I've notice you haven't looked once since my arrival. Don't tell me your stomach's gone weak."

Dust and cobwebs clung to Brand's dark hair as she emerged, dagger clutched victoriously in her right fist. Her eyes darted away from the heap on the floor. It was only her finicky eating habits that saved the two of them from having to hunt for weapons and clues in a room that reeked of vomit on top of the already established stench of animal excrement, sweat and mold.

"Pardon me if I'm not in the mood to check over my handiwork," she got to her feet and moved to the small side table. The was a scroll there, the very thing she'd been investigating when the man had attacked her. She threw it into her pack and then jerked the drawer open. Empty. Brand frowned and looked around again. Did this guy own nothing? She'd found no more than a scrap of paper and a brown leather pouch full of colored stones.

"Flip the mattress," Anders suggested this with the certainty of one who'd hidden a great deal in his life, then turned back to focus on the man. Despite what he'd told Brand, he wasn't concerned with the poor slob's chance of survival. However, his chance of being able to chew in the near future was quite another issue. "You might have broken his jaw. It's hard to tell with all the blood and swelling."

This was greeted with the sound of straw and fabric being dropped in frustration. Nothing.

"He looks like he hasn't eaten much lately, to say nothing of the personal grooming. He's like a Chasind hobo. Maybe he was brought here against his will." Holding out the small wand that was their main source of light, Anders caught a glittering from the corner of his eye. It was the mask Brand wore during their brief participation in the evening's Satinalia celebration, he hooked his fingers through the eye-holes and held it up. "Were you going to leave this behind? Wade would be very upset with you."

"He'd just make me another," Wade was the Warden's resident smith, a lover of experimentation and hand-wrought finery. She winced at the thought of his partner's response. "Herren, on the other hand, would definitely be upset. I think Wade spent almost an entire day on that thing while other orders piled up."

"Hmmm," Anders admired the mask. "Perhaps we could use it to cover Mr. Brokenface's...uh...broken face. We'll have to get him to the boarding house somehow. This way, we might be able to cast off some suspicion, pretend that he's a friend who got himself a bit in over his head. Also, it might make it easier for you to look in his general direction, since we're going to be hauling his carcass across Amaranthine."

"Do that then. Put the mask on him," despite the curtness, it was less an order than agreement_. He deserves some sort of explanation for why his commander is suddenly skittish at the sight of a little blood._ Brand sighed heavily and kicked at the floor, her tone turning confessional. "I think he had surrendered. When I knocked him out, I mean. He said he was sorry and I...I could have _killed_ him in that moment."

"I'm sure you a perfectly good reason," Anders gingerly slid the mask over the man's battered features and stood up. Brand had turned back to him, distress writ clear in her eyes.

"I thought of Bryce," she bit her lip then, as if to keep herself from saying more.

"That more than exceeds the standards of perfectly good," he genuinely believed this. Then, with a gesture towards their new friend. "Shall we?"

Together they lifted the man; Brand grabbed his feet and Anders the shoulders. Maneuvering out of the small room without beating him against the doorframe was an awkward endeavor, but they managed with minimal cursing. Shortly after they cleared the door, they heard a clatter as an object fell from the man's body to the floor. Anders twisted to look beneath the man's sagging backside.

"Oh!"

"What is it?"

"Umm...your other dagger?"

"You're...kidding, right?"

"Not even. He must have stuck it in his waistband during your altercation."

Brand reeled, leaning against the hull for support lest her knees give out. This meant one of two things- either she was extraordinarily lucky or the man had possessed no intention of killing her.

"Commander? Are you all right?" Anders sounded uncharacteristically concerned. _And you didn't even tell him that Bryce wasn't the only one you thought about during your scrap._

"I'm...I'm fine. Grab the blade and let's get out of here, before I make an even bigger mess of things."

The pair emerged above deck a few minutes later, gasping the fresh air as if they'd been below for days, and were immediately accosted by two very irritated assassins. _Hired men_, Brand corrected herself. _Zevran would die before he let these morons be considered assassins. _

"Hey! Where'd you two come from?" Hired man #1 was squat and impressively wide. His face sat like a fleshy cube on broad shoulders and his thick, flat fingers fondled the handle of a plain iron longsword with deliberate flagrance, as if that alone would be enough to intimidate the two Grey Wardens.

"Was these guys on the ship, too?" Hired man #2 was taller than his partner, not quite as wide, although his feet were planted so far apart he might as well have the largest set of...

"They don't exactly look like the rest of the crew and...what? They's got our mark!"

And then they attacked.

Brand and Anders didn't even bother to rush their defense, carefully lowering their captive to the deck and moving to place themselves between him and the lackeys. Hired man #2 slashed out at Brand with a blade that might have been mostly rust. She dodged back and then lunged forward, one dagger he never saw her unsheathe sliding easily into a small gap in his breastplate while a second slashed effortlessly across his throat, arterial blood burbling forth and quickly painting his chest in vivid crimson.

Displaying a bit more caution, hired man #1 circled to Anders' left side and struck out with his shield, a maneuver that was utterly ineffective. In response, the mage shot his hand skyward and a blast of frigid air enveloped the goon, momentarily rooting him. Brand took over, repeating her stab and slash with studied precision and he joined his friend face first on the filthy deck.

All told, it took less than a minute for the Wardens to dispatch their assailants.

"I knew they were lack wits."

"To be fair, we _are_ pretty awesome."

"To be fair."

Before resuming their mission, Brand searched the men's bodies, looking for anything that might indicate who they served, how much they were paid and what the purpose of such a half-hearted operation might be. It was unlikely, as any hit man worth his salt knew not to hold on to such...

"Oh, this is perfect," Brand held up a packet of parchment that had only been slightly coated in blood. Tucking the documents with the scroll in her bag, she shot Anders a relieved grin that was a marked departure from the guilt she'd worn earlier. It was hard to see it in the pale light within the cove, but he turned a little pink. It was common knowledge that the Warden-Commander of Ferelden had a beautiful smile, and he was far from immune to the charm.


	4. Healing

It was nearly dawn when Anders and Brand struggled into their rented room at _Marigold's Boarding House and Book Shoppe with Baked Goods_, the most specifically named inn in Ferelden. Their progress through town had been marked by an overwhelming lack of concern from the City Guard.

"Should I bring that up to Constable Aidan?"

"What? That two armed and partially masked strangers can carry a possibly dead body through the streets of his city and not raise a single eyebrow? It is Satinalia, after all. You can't _really _expect them to care."

"True enough. I guess I shouldn't complain. Better this than getting caught. Maker, Varel would never let me hear the end of _that_."

Once secure in their room, they deposited the man's still limp body into the stone tub dominating the corner of the chamber. Anders tore off his helmet and darted back out to order a bath.

"And he's a bit...unconscious, so he's already in the basin. You might want to make sure the water isn't too hot, lest you scorch his..._you know_." The night clerk raised a weary eyebrow but jotted down the request.

Chambermaids arrived about ten minutes later, each laden with buckets of steaming water that they poured around the partially dressed man. As they scurried out of the room, Brand could hear one ask the other if she thought the man in the robes was incredibly attractive.

"So, do we scrub him, or will a long soak be enough?" Anders drew the heavy curtain that separated the bathing area from the rest of the room.

"I'm in no mood to scrub anyone, so I say soak," Brand threw off her cloak, cringing at the motion. Anders caught her grimace, his eyes moving down her face and then:

"Oh, Maker. _Brand,_" he stumbled forward, hands reaching to pull her shirt away from her neck, his expression growing steadily more horrified during the examination.

"It's not that bad," jerking back for emphasis was a terrible idea; the movement shot a jolt of agony from her left ear to her left elbow.

"It _is_ that bad...why didn't you say something?" He stared again at the wound _wounds_- two angry half circles that were barely visible under a cracked coating of dry blood. "Bites are _always_ bad, bad, bad..."

"So...heal me, then. Just stop fretting; you know I find it unnerving."

Pressing on her good shoulder, Anders forced his commander into a sitting position on the bed. It took him a few minutes to gather a washcloth and his medicine bag and to pull a backless wooden stool up to the bed, but once he started treating the injury he moved quickly and with almost incomparable skill. Brand was an excellent patient, holding herself completely still as he washed the area and doused it in a foul-smelling tincture.

"Most people cry when that stuff touches their skin," his breath was warm on her neck as he spoke.

"Most people haven't been almost snapped in half by a dragon and had a tiny human being literally cut from their body. Amongst other things."

"This is absolutely true," despite his annoyance _hurt? anger?_ at Brand's lack of self-preservation, smile lines crinkled around his eyes. The next step was to cover her neck with a poultice to help with the swelling. "Let's...get your armor off."

It was not so strange, the process of them working together to loosen her breastplate and carefully remove her padded shirt. She'd been nearly naked in his presence a hundred times as he dressed her sundry wounds, those she could not reach herself or those that needed magical interference. Tonight though, she was feeling increasingly receptive to the idea of him. Barriers that she had maintained for years _my husband might have preferred more than barriers_ had been showing signs of wear for months, and she could no longer ignore their ineffectiveness.

The poultice went on and he smoothed it carefully, contouring it to the curve of her neck. His hand rested there, pressing just hard enough to ensure that the herbal compound had a chance to seep into the now clean wound. Without really meaning to, his thumb brushed her chin, lingering over a two-inch scar that ran from the corner of her mouth to her jaw line and she was transported to a former life.

_I can't believe this happened. I actually stabbed you in the face, I am so...wait, why are you laughing?_

_Because it's incredibly ridiculous to be stabbed in the face? Especially by a...a comrade._

Something must have flickered in her eyes, because Anders' expression grew quite serious _he is so close to me right now_ and this time the line he traced along her jaw was deliberate. She blinked slowly, still partially trapped in a memory she hadn't allowed in years.

_..Am I? Fooling myself? Or...do you think you might ever...feel the same way about me?_

_I don't know, it's too soon to say._

_Well, is it too soon for this?_

The kiss wasn't unexpected, nor was her body's response to it- every nerve snapping to attention. His mouth was hot against hers, insistent, but he refrained from pushing too much lest it cause her pain. The result was an embrace that felt wickedly restrained even as it intensified, her tongue darting out in search of his. He responded quickly, tenderly bracing her neck and allowing himself press a bit harder.

Brand felt her knees go up to ensnare him at the waist. One hand found itself buried in his shoulder-length hair _I wore it down tonight, just for you_ the other curling around a brass ring that anchored his robes at his chest. She tugged him closer, suddenly _desperately_ in need of the contact.

He cast the healing spell without her knowledge; she felt the familiar warmth bloom from his fingertips and engulf her from her temples down in unimaginable comfort. It was like being held from the inside or lined in velvet. A second pulse followed and the sudden relief of afflictions she hadn't even acknowledged was almost euphoric.

"Nice trick."

"Mmmm, I've got all kinds of tricks. If you're lucky, I might show you a few more."

With the barest touch, he brushed against her lips and faint sparks of electricity tingled there. It was a tease after the promise held in his voice. Brand met his gaze, prepared to chastise his hesitance, and was, inexplicably, startled by his eyes _they_ _should be darker than that._ He registered her surprise by pulling back, face inscrutable.

"Brand?"

"I'm sorry," her eyelids fluttered as she pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. "I just had the...the strangest..."

Anders smiled then, a rueful little grin, and leaned away. "You haven't slept for almost a day, and you're probably concussed. We should..._you_ should get some rest."

"Ok," she felt wrong, somehow, and not because of what had just transpired between the two of them, although...engaging...a subordinate was not exactly the right thing to do. It would be easier to agree with the mage than it would be to explain, or protest, or continue down the ill-advised path they were on.

He helped her with her clothes, tugging off her boots and unbuckling her leg guards. "I don't want you to strain your shoulder," he explained. Brand couldn't tell if this was the truth; Anders was quite skilled at escaping, even from himself.

It took some coaching to find a resting position that was comfortable, but Brand was out almost as soon as she had. Anders carefully arranged the coverlet over her head to block most of the lamplight in the room.

"I'll just… look after my other patient," Anders spoke to nobody in particular, trying to gather his thoughts. There was no reason for his head to be swimming. What had happened...it was just like any number of ill-fated flirtations he'd had before; lusty little matches that burned bright and then fell to ash within minutes. _Forget that. You wanted more this time._ He sighed. Perhaps tending to the man languishing in the tub would actually be a good idea.

First things first, though. He stripped out of his robes, eschewing them for a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to avoid getting them wet, and brown pants. _There, decidedly less mage-tastic._ He was still, after five years of being free from the Circle, wary of being perceived as a mage first when he was away from the Vigil. There was always that tiny fear of being seen by the wrong person, of being chained anew or executed. _Brand would never let that happen, though. How many times has she fought for your freedom?_ His eyes shifted to her slumbering form. She'd already kicked off her blanket and was quite exposed...

Guilt flooded him, and he looked away. Brand was his superior officer. No matter what might have caught at them this morning, that would not change. Who they were would not change.

Grabbing his pack and a clean rag, Anders parted the curtain to the bathing area. The man was still sleeping. _Where to start, here?_ He set aside his supplies and tugged at the bottom of the man's spectacularly filthy trousers, praying that he was wearing smallclothes. The pants came off _thank the Maker the rest stayed put_ and Anders set them on the hearth. If he wasn't afraid of killing the three of them with noxious fumes, he'd have gone ahead and tossed them in the fireplace.

The next step was to carefully extract the dragon mask, and not gasp too loudly when he saw the bruised and bloodied face it hid. In the strong light of the room, it was shocking. The entire left side looked like pulp- busted lip, swollen jaw and cheek, and a blackened eye. Anders' mind cast back to the appalling teethmarks on Brand's neck and it was almost enough to make him abandon the task at hand. _He attacked her like an animal. He deserved what he got. _Putting aside his distaste, Anders began the unpleasant chore of cleaning and dressing the wounds, cringing as dried blood gave way to open flesh.

It was the tincture that finally roused the man out of unconsciousness. His good eye shot open and searched the room wildly before settling on Anders. Anders leaned back. He had, as a precaution, tucked his own dagger _it was Bryce's idea, that's why it has "Anderseses" engraved down the blade _at the small of his back. Of course, he had other means of protecting himself, but he would rather not explode anyone while the Commander slept. There was little she liked less than waking up to a bloodbath.

For a few moments, the man remained still, staring at Anders. _This is going nowhere. But what should I say? "Don't mind me, I promise I'm not a pervert. Now hold still and let me wash your hair"?_

_"_So, you might be wondering why you're lying in a bathtub in nothing but your smallclothes while a strange man watches you," it sounded just as crazy aloud as it had in Anders' head. "Actually, I wasn't _watching_ you so much as I was cleaning your wounds and trying to gauge how much of your face is salvageable but, from your vantage point, it's all about the same level of creepy."

The staring continued.

"Right. Anyway, we have two choices here. I can either stop dealing with your injuries, leaving them to rot and fester until you decide you want to communicate, oooor I could finish what I started, which would require that you _not_ latch onto my throat like a demented weasel."

At this, a flash of shame registered in the man's eye and twisted at the good side of his face. _He remembers._

"So what will it be? Festering wounds or restraint?"

"Restraint," the two syllables scraped out of a ruined throat; it hurt Anders just to hear. During his imprisonment in the Circle, the Templars would deny him water for days. He would finally force himself to ask, his voice as shot as this man's, and they'd toss him a few hard ends of bread, laughing at how clever they were. At the end of those trials his thirst would be as such that not even all the water in Lake Calenhad could quench it, much less the half-filled skins they allowed him.

Despite his wariness, Anders abandoned his watch long enough to fetch the man a drink. It wasn't cold, but it would be better than nothing. It was received without hesitation and disappeared in one long gulp that was probably intensely painful.

"Thank you," the relief was genuine. Anders completed the clean-up and placed a compress very similar to the one Brand wore against the man's face. _I hope you like a beard full of elfroot pulp._ With the pummeled part covered, he looked almost normal. Gaunt, but normal. And distractingly familiar. _I've seen those eyes before._

"I didn't really examine it too closely, but I think your jaw might be broken. If you want, I can do something that might help," Anders hadn't wanted to offer this service, but felt compelled to. The man must be in a nearly unbearable amount of pain. _When did you become such a soft touch, Anders? _

"Magic?" The voice was back at a croak and Anders fetched a second glass of water. He settled back on his stool and watched the man drink, the water disappearing a little slower this time.

"Yes, _magic_. I promise I won't turn you into a toad, or explode you, or anything untoward like that."

"Ok," the eye shut as he resigned himself to Anders' discretion. Anders placed his hand so that it floated over the man's forehead and allowed the spell to pour out. _This isn't nearly as pleasant as healing Brand; no soft lips or pretty green eyes. _

As if he sensed the mage's momentary reverie, the man grabbed Anders hand and twisted. It wasn't just the force of his grip that hurt, although the fingertips dug hard into his skin, but it came with the entirely horrible sensation of having his power drained. _Maker smite him, he's a templar! And I gave him water, like a fool. _

With the man depleting his mana, Anders decided to handle the situation in a less distinguished way. Yanking his dagger from behind his back, he smacked the pommel against the man's temple and then pressed the blade against his cheek, Anderseses side up.

"I would recommend that you let go of me," Anders seethed his words rather than spoke them. He could feel the man's grip weakening; this was a desperate maneuver. "I've been instructed in the art of evisceration by one of the best swordsmen in Thedas, and there's _nothing_ that your being a templar can do to help you against this blade."

The man held his grasp for a few moments longer, his eye gone black with hatred. Finally, he relented and fell back against the tub. Anders withdrew his dagger and tucked it back into his waistband, remaining vigilantly aware of his attacker. It would take a while for his mana to restore itself; he couldn't afford to be caught again. Fortunately, the man wanted to attempt another tactic.

"What do you want with me?" Stringing together such a sentence must have been torture, even the unbruised half of his lips were raw. Anders felt decidedly unsympathetic.

"I...don't know how to answer that." This was true; Brand had not filled him in on all the details of their mission. He only knew that there was human smuggling and assassination involved. "All I know is that you were being smuggled, and someone wanted to assassinate you." Let it never be said that he couldn't be transparent when he wanted to be.

"And...I'm just supposed to believe that you and...whoever it was that attacked me are looking out for my best interests?" His mouth turned down.

"Attacked you? I heard _you_ struck the first blow. Or was I lied to?"

For the second time, there was a visible flicker of shame in the man's eye.

"Ah, victim complex," Anders gave this a deliberately mocking edge. "Of course, if I looked as pulverized as you do, I might play the role myself. Better to be the injured party than a straight-up loser, _I_ always say."

"What would you have done had you awoken to a stranger in your cabin?"

"Any stranger, or your stranger? Were it _your_ stranger, I would have asked for two more wishes. But I am prone to looking on the bright side of a situation, especially one in which I am already..._prone,_" the glibness was also deliberate, and was having the desired effect of angering the man in the tub.

"I'd rather take my chances with my clothes on," this was spat out.

Anders crossed his arms and shrugged. "Bad experience, huh? Suit yourself. Speaking of clothes...you don't have any on right now. As this conversation is ridiculous, anyway, why don't we call a temporary truce? You can finish your bath and I suppose I can donate something for you to wear. The pants you came in are in dire need of an exorcism and we'll be leaving this place, eventually. Can't have you running around Ferelden in the altogether, can we?"

"Ferelden," the syllables carried a terrible amount of weight when he said them, as if the word was something that could literally sink a man. He sighed. "Truce."

***

Brand was still sleeping like the dead when Anders emerged from behind the curtain, having chosen to give the man privacy while he washed and dressed. He considered waking her to explain the current situation. The memory of how dazed she'd been after their encounter compelled him to let her rest. Now that he knew the man was a templar, Anders had the advantage. He _did_ cover her again, more for his own peace of mind than anything. The room was fairly small and he wasn't comfortable with the notion of their new companion getting an eyeful of the Commander in such a scant amount of clothing. _She probably thought he'd be unconscious for quite a bit longer._

It was nearly half an hour later when the man stepped through the curtain. His borrowed shirt and trousers were a bit loose but not a horrible fit and, with the layer of grime off of him, he seemed markedly less hobo-ish. Anders had made tea in the interim, and felt like a good little helpmate as he gestured for the man to join him at the narrow table.

The man's attention had already been caught. Brand had once again thrown off the coverlet _how does she do that without me noticing?_ and curled herself in a tight ball, leaving her bared back exposed to the room. His interest seemed less lewd than regretful, his gaze trained on the most obvious result of the scuffle between the two of them- an eggplant colored bruise roughly the size of his own fist that marred her ribcage. Anders stood, immediately defensive, and insinuated himself between the man and the Commander.

"Sit down."

"Is she all right?"

Anders scowled, "Her well-being is none of your concern. Now sit down."

"Do women really go for the whole 'soulful healer' routine? I bet they do. Fix them up, then take advantage while they're still grateful and vulnerable," the man's switch from concerned to caustic put Anders on edge, as did the implication of his words.

"Healing is only the smallest fraction of what I'm capable of and, unless you want to experience the full scope, you will sit down. Now." Anders was only inches away from the man and uncomfortably aware of something that had been less evident when on his back in the tub- the stranger was tall and rangy, exuding a notable amount of confident power. Anders wasn't small by any stretch, but there was something physically intimidating about the man that couldn't be immediately placed. _And he's a templar. Never forget that._

The man sat, and Anders, drawing a shaky breath, took the chair across from him.

"What happens next?" The man scooped his cup of tea in both large hands, taking a long, awkward sip before setting it down with a surprisingly delicate touch.

"We wait."

"On her?" The eye shifted towards the Commander. Anders' followed.

"Yes."

"Aren't you afraid that I'll try to escape? Perhaps finish what I started..."

"Should I be?"

"Probably."

"At least you're honest," Anders narrowed his eyes, pushing his palm out as if he was opening a door. The accompanying blast of energy washed over the man and he fell forward against the table, his head knocking into the teacup, spilling the remaining liquid across the floor. He, of course, was not aware of this. It would be several hours before he was aware of anything. Between Anders' sleep spell and the potent sedative brewed into his beverage, he was well out of commission.


	5. Interlude

Brand was at Ostagar.

The last time she'd seen these ruins, they'd been blanketed in snow and desiccated corpses, with darkspawn idols erected to obscure every recognizably human structure in the camp.

It was autumn here again, as it was the first time she'd arrived with Duncan. She couldn't recall if she'd seen him recently, him _or_ the king for that matter. _I need to tell Cailan about my parents_...she shook her head, realizations filtering through confusion..._Cailan is gone now, you burned his body yourself. He can't help you. He never could._

Taking cautious steps, as if at any moment the world would tilt and spin out from under her, Brand walked a familiar path past Duncan's fire, the kennels and the magi encampment to find herself in a perpetually shaded area, fortified less by masonry and more by the encroaching wilds.

There she stood in between two memories. The War Council to her left. The ghosts of men preparing for battle _already engaged in battle between and within themselves_ beckoned her. It would be comfortable there- her hands, clad in iron scale gloves, told her that she was a green recruit. Her mind, though...it was primed for tactical discussion. _Maybe I can do this, suggest a strategy that might work. I could save the Wardens, save the king...but that's not why I'm here. They are dead, and dead is dead._

Her head turned the other way _someone yet lives beyond this illusion_. There was a ramp, it should have been dappled in late afternoon sunlight _he should have the sun on his head_ but was dark beneath the moonless night sky. It seemed fitting, though, to meet him here under threat of dream rain.

He was waiting where he would always be waiting, but alone this time and with his back to the ramp. He turned before she even announced herself, and she could not have anticipated the depth of resignation in his eyes.

_I should have known you'd come._

_Did you not call?_

His head tilted at this, confusion playing across his features.

_Did I? I don't remember._

_Neither...neither do I. But maybe you didn't need to._

_You can just sense these things? Not even _you're_ that good._

_Some people are protected in ways that can't be understood._

_Who told you _that_?_

_No one needed to tell me. You don't survive the things I've survived without figuring this out._

He frowned; bitterness crept into his voice.

_Well, you always were a lucky one._

_Or maybe I'm just someone worth saving. The question is, are _you_?_

_Probably not, but I guess we'll be finding out soon enough. One way or another._


	6. Boundaries & Complications

Her neck was on fire.

It was a pain so intense that Brand's eyes were filled with tears before she even opened them. Anders stood over her, pouring more of his Makerforsaken solution on her shoulder; it hissed at her. She suddenly regretted her earlier bravado.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"That stuff is like death in a bottle."

"Or a really horrible life."

Keeping her back to Anders, Brand labored into an upright position. The tincture spilled down her chest, drying quickly but leaving behind a vicious sting. Anders was kind enough to offer a damp towel.

_"_It might help, with the burning."

Wiping at the residue _did_ diminish the pain a bit; it was at least soothing against her irritated skin. Anders continued to address her wound.

"I noticed some red streaks coming from beneath your bandages, so I decided to redress it."

"It's that bad?"

"I've seen worse, but I'd feel better if Fiona were here. We should think about getting back to the Vigil sooner rather than later."

Fiona was the Warden's Senior Mage, a transplant from Orlais via the Anderfels. She would be furious when she saw the bite on Brand's shoulder, somehow managing to lay blame on Brand for getting it, Anders for not being able to heal it right away, and herself for not being on hand to deal with it in the first place. Then she'd lay into the person who caused it, Maker save him from her considerable wrath.

"How _is_ our human contraband?"

Anders finished securing the bandage to her shoulder, and took a seat beside her on the bed, facing the opposite direction. He indicated the far side of the room with a tilt of his head and smiled grimly.

"He's fine, once I got him cleaned up. He was able to dress himself without keeling over dead and is...resting now. I only had to pull out my dagger once, which I think is pretty impressive, considering," he paused and looked her over, eyes bright with curiosity. "What were you dreaming about, just before you awoke?"

The sudden switch in topic startled Brand, "Why do you ask? Was I thrashing? Andraste's knickers, did I _say_ something?"

"Yes, but nothing too incriminating. It was just suddenly...so _clear_, like you'd been having a conversation the whole time and I happened to walk in on one part."

"Not _too_ incriminating? What was it? Wait, wait, don't tell me..." her voice went monotone. "Oh, Anders. Don't stop."

"So original, you are," Anders pretended to be hurt, crossing his arms across his chest and pouting. Had nothing happened between them, Brand would have been tempted to kiss his cheek or give him a hug _maybe it was inevitable_. "Actually, you said 'The question is, are you?'"

She turned the phrase over in her head, pushing it around her memory in the hopes something would click, "I really don't remember. Anyway, it seems innocuous enough."

"Hmmm, I was just curious. I did want to ask you something else, though," his brow knitted in concern, his voice deeply serious. This was the Anders she expected to see before he asked her something like 'Can we destroy my phylactery?', or 'Would you mind me pretending to be the Commander to impress that lovely young woman across the room?'

"Certainly," she didn't sound too certain. "What's up?"

"Do you...do you feel like I took advantage of you? You know, earlier."

Brand's eyes widened. "What? Do I think you took advantage? No....No. _Of course not_. Especially since you're the one who ended it. That was quite...chivalrous of you, to be honest."

"You sound surprised," this time the hurt was genuine and, this time, Brand gave in to her earlier urge, reaching across to run her fingers through his hair, letting the strands slide through them before moving on to graze his cheek. _Commander Cousland, you have officially lost your damn mind._ His eyes searched her face, and she knew what he was thinking, what he wanted to ask. This was a relatively huge decision; there was protocol to think about, to say nothing of their friendship. Those things had more value than idle flirtation and physical gratification, didn't they?

Brand closed her eyes and recalled the surprising gentleness of Anders' touch, the way they responded to one another. _Don't you want feel that again? Aren't you sick of being treated like a Chantry sister because your husband's dead and nobody knows that you were once the sort of woman who would trade sex for a dueling lesson?_

Anders was still watching her; she still held his face, enjoying the texture of his scruff against her palm. If any of their comrades found out about this..._it's not like they don't already suspect it; there have been murmurings for years. And I am officially at the point where I just don't care anymore._

"I would kiss you, but I'm wounded and this is a really awkward angle," her hand slid down his neck; he caught it and, his eyes remaining trained on hers, repositioned himself and gently leaned her back on the bed, coming to rest alongside her.

"Is this better?" He lowered his mouth to hers, carefully stroking her dark hair while they kissed, allowing the tiniest charge of electricity to spark against her forehead.

"Much," she smiled sweetly and he felt a rush of _you don't love her, don't even think that_ adoration. He returned to her lips, tracing them with the tip of his tongue, teasing her until hers darted out to meet him. The contact sent shivers the length of him and he slipped into her mouth, trying not to go a bit mad when her hip began to rub against him.

"So not fair," he buried his face in her neck, inhaling. She smelled like the inside of his medicine bag, and he had to laugh. What else did he expect?

"What in the Maker's name is so amusing?" Brand was still grinning _she is _gorgeous_ when she's happy and she hasn't been for so long _and Anders felt his cheeks go crimson.

"Because of your bandages, you smell a bit medicinal. I found it funny for some reason, like I thought you would suddenly be redolent of flowers or rain because we're...well, doing _this_." He kissed her again, fervently and with no small amount of certainty. He could feel Brand's fingers in his hair, her nails lightly scraping the base of his neck, the nerves there carrying pleasant sensations down his spine to more fitting parts of his body, and her hip went back into action. Without thought, his right hand began to travel down her chest, moving to her waist and below.

"Tell me if I'm going too fast."

"If you don't do something soon, I will."

His fingers found their way beneath the band of her underclothes, lingering along a scar that ran a few inches lower and parallel, and then a bit further to a place where _oh that hip is going to be the end of me_ the softness of hair gave way to slippery hot skin that yielded to his finger-tips as she shifted herself to guide him down and in. That was when he lost track of what he was doing to her, and what she was doing to him. There were only lips and tongues, and _his_ hand moving with her hips, and _her_ hip moving against him. He then felt her at his stomach, slipping down to grasp him through his pants _I never thought something trained to kill could do...other things so well..._using the friction of fabric between them, and an expert application of pressure, to pull him closer and closer to release until...

"Maker's breath, Brand. Where have you _been_?"

Brand yanked him down hard against her mouth and their tongues met again, working circles around one another as he continued to caress and tease, his hand suddenly speaking on behalf of all of him, feeding off the heat of her until she was arching her back and succumbing to his efforts with a subtle clench around his fingers and a low moan.

They remained intertwined, neither in a hurry to let go. Anders pulled his hand away from her and trailed it back up her stomach_, _allowing a bit of healing magic to flow into her, enjoying the way it made her body writhe appreciatively against him. The contentment on Brand's face was such as he'd never seen; she idly twirled a strand of his hair and then planted an unexpected _this is _all_ unexpected_ kiss on his nose. It was just a quick, affectionate gesture, but it made his heart pound so hard that he was afraid it would wake...

"Andraste's flaming sword," Anders sat upright, the force of his swear and reaction causing Brand to pop up with him.

"Anders? What's wrong?" He looked past her to see the man still face down on the table, his shoulders rising and falling in concordance with his drugged slumber. Sagging back in relief, Anders let out a low chuckle. Brand, however, was mortified. "Oh. I can't believe...wow. Did we do _that _with a stranger not ten feet away? I guess I thought he was still in the...I feel like such a...again with the laughing! What is it this time?"

"I'm laughing because _you_ are an adorable bundle of contradictions, my lady. All cute and playful one minute, then incredibly _evil_ the next. To say nothing of when you go all proper on me. It's very confusing. But I suppose that's part of your allure."

"Well, I'm glad that _you_ find me alluring," she underlined this with an unbidden nibble of his ear, as if basking in the way that she confounded him, running her still hot tongue along the top cartilage, her breath so close that it was hard to distinguish from his own thoughts.

_You _are_ evil, Brand. Taunting him even though you know you're not alone._ She stopped her inciting and looked over at the stranger. All she could really see was his back and a tuft of unkempt hair; it was a rusty gold color _he should have the sun on his head. _

_Where did _that_ come from? _Brand's stomach clenched as she spun around to Anders, suddenly looking very much like his boss, albeit his boss in her unmentionables. "What did you say about him earlier?"

"Uh, that he bathed?"

"No, you said that you pulled your dagger on him. Why?"

"Because he grabbed me."

Brand regarded her fellow Grey Warden closely. He wasn't telling her everything. "Is that the only reason? You have more...efficient ways of placating someone, ways that wouldn't introduce a deadly weapon to the mix."

"Is this an interrogation?" Anders was now on the defensive.

"No, I just...tell me," she moved away from him towards to the edge of the bed. Panic rose in her, a gut churning, sweat-inducing, honest to the Maker panic. "Anders, please."

"Calm down," he held his hands up. "When he grabbed me, he was...I could feel my mana being drained. I think he might be a templar. Or an ex-templar. Maybe...Andraste's name, Brand. What is _wrong_ with you?"

As he'd explained his theory, Brand had gone the color of ash. She slid off of the bed, stumbling a bit as she walked towards the table and the man who slept there. Her hand was on her chest and, "Brand? Are you ok?"

The answer to that question was an indisputable "Not at all". She had, in fact, fallen to her knees at the man's feet and was peering up at him, her face cycling rapidly through a series of ugly emotions- horror, sadness, heartbreak, anger- until she settled on still and utter blankness, her eyes staring at the man in front of her and beyond him...

_...you know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together... _

Alistair

It was a name that Brand had refused to let herself think, much less say, for years. Now her mind was full of him- fumbling declarations of attraction and admiration, exhilaratingly blood-soaked battles in places the sun would never see, long conversations full of tender, funny moments and short conversations that led to hours of lovemaking _you're the first woman I _ever_ spent the night with and, if I have my way, you'll be the last_.

At one time, she had burned every inch of his face _his neck, his shoulders, his chest, his hands_ into her mind for those instances when life or a darkspawn held her in its teeth, using it as safety blanket, an anchor, a reason for being _you squint when you smile and get the cutest little crinkles by your eyes_. Also committed was the way he felt insider her, and how his skin tasted as it burned against her mouth, and how anything in the world could be forgotten or forgiven when they were hip to hip and secure in each others' arms _why should we go anywhere?_ or at each other's side.

Those were the beautiful memories, the lights that had drawn her from the brink on nights when all she could see were the beloved dead and all she could feel was alone. Buried in between yet consuming them all was That Moment. It was That Moment which she carried with her, which she'd grasped and held all these years, even knowing it was a poison.

It was Alistair leaving _I have no place here any longer_; it was him leaving Ferelden _one of my guards saw him boarding a Rivaini ship before the horde arrived in the city. I can't say I'm not pleased_, it was him leaving the Wardens _being a Warden is an honor, not a punishment_. Mostly, though, it was him leaving her and, in the process, extinguishing all those lights and fires that he had ignited himself. _I guess this is good-bye...I had no idea that it would end like this for us._

On the floor in that room in the inn, she studied the sunken contours of the face that belonged to her former friend, comrade and lover. He was still recognizably Alistair under the beard and _hopefully_ the poultice. She was seized with an urge to peel the bandages back and see the damage done, flashes of the fight between them going off like lightning in the corners of her vision. One moment in particular, pressing up against him and then pulling him into her, should have made it obvious, the give and take of the brawl like a countless other times they'd tangled in less dire ways

Had _he_ known? The thought that he might have, after the way he hit and held and bit her, made her ill. _Maybe he was afraid that you'd come to condemn him as a deserter, to serve him a traitor's punishment. _She shook her head, _how quickly you slip back into excusing him _and stood up_, _counting to ten as slowly as she could, willing her thoughts to order. There was more to think about now than their history and his motivations.

"This complicates things," her voice sounded surprisingly even. Anders hadn't left his place on the bed; he was looking disheveled, worried and a bit abandoned. _You ran from his arms to the feet of another man, you should to explain yourself. But how _exactly_ do you explain a situation like this?_

"Old friend?"

She snorted, "That's _one_ way of putting it, I guess." Anders raised his eyebrows.

"Do I want to know?"

Brand walked over to where she'd dropped her pack earlier that morning and began to rummage through it, pulling out the packet of letters she'd discovered on the hired men and the scroll she'd found in the man's _Alistair's_ room.

The letters were on expensive parchment, the lettering done by a rushed yet precise hand. They detailed the arrival of one Target on the caravel from Antiva, scheduled to dock in the Amaranthine cove on Feast Day Night: _The Target will be a man between the ages of 25 and 30, a Warrior and not a Sailor. If he is not Summarily Dispatched onboard the boat on which he arrived, he has a room at the Crown and Lion Inn. Two nights after Feast Day night, he is to meet his contact at Marigold's Boarding House and Book Shoppe with Baked Goods. It is Imperative that This Meeting is Not To Happen. There is a Scroll that should be on the Target. After he is Summarily Dispatched, you will report to Your Contact at the Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer. If you have not brought the Scroll by midnight after Feast Day, your lives will be forfeit._

There were no names or signatures to identify the origin of the assassination order. The scroll, on the other hand, bore a wine colored wax seal. Brand held it up and allowed a small gasp, then placed her thumb over the impression in the irregular blob, as if it might disappear under the warmth and pressure, somehow undoing the past. If she'd seen this in the first place, in the dark of the cabin, she'd have known then. _Oh, Eamon. _What_ were you thinking?_

Her mind began to click, new bits of information fitting in with the old as she began to form a strategy. It was probably close to noon, which meant they had twelve hours before the contract would expire. At that point, whoever had ordered the hit would probably turn their focus on Marigold's _if they haven't already_. Part of her wanted to wait it out and confront Eamon _it would be like kicking a sick, old dog_ but the more insistent part of her wanted to run for the Vigil. They'd be far safer amongst the Wardens and Brand would have access to all of her men, which might be a good thing, considering she may very well have stumbled into the middle of a political storm.

The Vigil it would be, then.

"Anders, we need to be on the road in less than an hour and we need to stop by the warehouse to get _him_ some armor," Brand was no longer the Brand that Anders had been holding not ten minutes earlier. She was his Commander again, her eyes bright and hard, her mouth set. He hoped that his disappointment wasn't too obvious. _You got the more, you should have asked for a bit of time to enjoy it, too._ Reflexively, he tightened his face to match her demeanor.

"Are you going to at least tell me who this man is?"

She was already pulling on a clean pair of hose to wear under her leathers, and didn't even turn around to answer.

"His name is Alistair, and my guess is that he was brought here to challenge Queen Anora."

"Oh, is that all? You know, I don't think I've ever participated in anything that could be classified as treason before."

"Don't worry, I have."

"Didn't you also end up imprisoned in Fort Drakon?" Anders felt his blood turn to ice at the very notion.

"But I _escaped. _Isn't that the important part?"

"Escaping is good, but not ever being behind bars is..._preferred_."

"Well, this is a situation where prison_ is _the preferred punishment_. _And I'll take full blame, of course."

_Over my manacled body._

"Of course."


	7. Myths & Legends

Anders thought he was doing an impressive thing by volunteering his services to aid King Cailan's efforts against the darkspawn threat at Ostagar. The king's army needed mages to fortify their ranks, talented mages who were capable and willing to fight.

"I am all of those things, you see. Especially the willing. But _especially_ the capable. And the talented," he sounded like he was trying to sell himself. "Again, pick a thing, and I'm_ it_."

Irving, however, refused to see the reasoning.

"You are a gifted mage, not even the Knight-Commander could deny that," Irving spoke slowly, chewing on the edges of his words in a way that made Anders want to set his own robes on fire. "However, there is more to consider here than talent. You and I both know that _you_ pose the highest flight risk of anyone in the Circle."

"But...templars! There will be templars escorting us and, with my phylactery, even if I did run they'd be able to track me down. Just like all the other times," Anders probably made a mistake tacking "just like all the other times" on there, but he thought there was a slim chance it would help his argument.

It didn't.

"I'm sorry, son," Irving put on a good show of looking as though he meant it. "There will be too many distractions at Ostagar for me to be secure in the knowledge that you wouldn't slip through the cracks."

"You mean 'dart through the cracks', don't you, Irving?" Anders couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice, even though he alone was to blame for his reputation. "I just want to _not_ be locked up here all the time, to get a chance to actually _use_ the powers that have damned me to _this_," he threw his arms out to indicate the entire tower. "I'm next to worthless here, we _all _are. I need to do more than light candles and cool hot beverages, and I want to help."

Irving's impossibly bushy brows pulled together. For a second he seemed on the threshold of relenting, and the younger mage felt his heart began to race; he was already imagining the warmth of sunlight on his face, the scent of the wind _and the possibility of beautiful battlemaidens_. Alas, the First Enchanter went the other way, shaking his head emphatically, "You should have thought about that the last three times you escaped. Regardless of your motivations, Anders, you have proven yourself incapable of handling freedom when you have it."

"How would _anyone_ know that? I get caught and thrown back in this prison before I have a chance to do anything more than take a deep breath of fresh air!"

"I'm not talking about freedom out there, I'm talking about your freedom in the Tower- the freedom I have given you every time you get brought back and Greagoir recommends putting you in solitary confinement. You're so focused on getting out that you have no idea your situation could be much, _much_ worse." There would be no talking back to this, even if Anders thought it was a most ridiculous justification for stifling a man's Maker-given talents AND his right to be free. Which, of course, he did.

Despite himself, Anders took a small part of Irving's message to heart, waiting for the return of those lucky enough _depending on your perspective_ to have gotten sent to Ostagar. Their arrival, along with news of the darkspawn victory, provided him a perfect opportunity. Anders was able to slip out unnoticed _just darting through the cracks_ while Irving and the Knight-Commander were distracted by accounting for their dead and fretting over the coming Blight.

Victory was, as ever, short-lived. The templars dragged him back to the Tower only days after the Grey Wardens swooped in and spared the Circle from annulment. Greagoir had _personally_ thrown him into his cell, although the toll of recent events made the Knight-Commander's victory over the wayward youth slightly emptier than it might have otherwise been.

Anders spent the rest of the Blight thirsty, alone, and counting cracks in the walls of his cell _couldn't slip or dart through any of those _while intermittently wishing he'd been around to turn into an abomination. As he was quite fond of his own form, and never mind the fact that it meant almost certain death, becoming a demon's puppet had never really appealed to him. But, at the very least, he could have taken a few templars down with him. Fate was cruel on that front; besides Mr. Wiggums, the Tower's pest control, the only people he saw were templars. They were responsible for his sporadic meal service and they would, on occasion, take him to the prison baths. It was during these brief forays outside of his hole that he heard many tales of the Grey Warden Brand.

From what he could gather during those overheard conversations, Brand was either the size of a qunari _a male qunari...eight feet tall!_ with steel-plated teeth and great swords for hands or she was a warrior goddess as diaphanous and exquisite as she was deadly. She'd discovered the Sacred Urn, slain high dragons with her bare hands, crowned the rulers of two nations and left behind a wake of eviscerated darkspawn that stretched from the Frostback Mountains to the Brecillian Forest and was fifty miles wide.

_"Can just one woman do all that?"_

_"Of course not. Cullen said that she had a group with her when she came- that old mage, Wynne, and a templar."_

_"A templar? Hey, you don't think it was that one guy...the one who got taken into the Wardens? What was his name? Alexander? Alfie?"_

_*sigh* "__Alistair?"_

_"Yeah, he was a right pain, if I remember. Always earning us extra sentences and laps around the practice yard with his damn smart mouth."_

After she'd slain the Archdemon, the stories grew more outlandish. Some of the templars thought she might be immortal, or possibly an Archdemon herself, just building a cult of personality before her planned takeover of Thedas.

_"She'll get us all in the end. Did you know that she stood there in front of the entire Landsmeet, all covered in blood, and accepted Loghain into the Wardens, even after he'd killed the rest of her order?"_

_"That's stupid, right?"_

_"No, it's _brilliant_. She conquered her enemy and then put him under her command, condemning him to fight the darkspawn as punishment for what he did at Ostagar."_

_"Well it sounds stupid to me, but it apparently appeased Queen Anora. I heard that other Warden...Maric's bastard. What was his name? Arthur? Anyway, I heard that he just ran out of the Landsmeet. Refused to accept Loghain."_

_"Sounds like something he'd do. Tosser." _

Anders was allowed to rejoin the Circle population a year after he'd been sentenced. The Hero of Ferelden remained a popular topic, especially amongst the younger apprentices who could find romance in the most horrible of things.

_"And then, in front of everyone, he told her that he was leaving her for what she'd done."_

_"I heard she caught him with Queen Anora and got worked up into a right jealous fit, she did. _That's_ why she had him exiled."_

_"Wasn't he exiled because the Queen would have killed him for being Maric's bastard? Why would the Queen execute her own lover?"_

_"Wait, weren't _they_ lovers? The Wardens, I mean. Keili saw them when they came to the Tower. Said they seemed awfully close."_

_"Keili's crazy, why would you listen to her?"_

_"Because good gossip is good gossip, even if it _is_ from someone crazy."_

As Anders was escaping for the last time, he never dreamed that he and this myth of a person would ever cross paths, or that she would be the one to finally free him from the Circle. When they did find one another in the darkspawn filled corridors of Vigil's Keep, it became abundantly clear that the truth about Brand Cousland was that she was just a woman with nerves of steel who happened to have the uncanny ability to survive almost anything, whether she wanted to or not _I stood over his body, Anders, and realized that he was no longer my husband but just another person who died while I...didn't_.

After serving under her, he'd all but forgotten those stories that circulated the Tower. The reality was far more interesting, anyway. Only the rumors of the man she betrayed ever really appealed to his curiosity. Since she had been married within months of ending the Blight _my summons to Amaranthine arrived at the estate in Rainesfere before I'd even _seen _the place_, Anders assumed that this Alistair, if he even existed, was nothing more than an ill-fated comrade and not someone with whom she'd been involved. Now that he'd seen the look on her face when confronted with the man, he was quite certain that all of _those_ rumors were rooted in absolute truth. _Yay_.

He kept an eye on her as they prepared to leave Amaranthine, quickly washing and then gathering their possessions for their return to the Vigil. Brand had a system and worked with an enviable efficiency of movement; shrugging into her armor without thought and twisting her long chestnut hair into its customary bun without the aid of a mirror. Her weapons case emptied in record time as hands built for dealing metal death expertly sheathed two enchanted daggers at her back and then two custom made longswords at her sides. Anders had barely fumbled into his robes by the time she was dressed, armed and ready to go, all the while studiously disregarding the man passed out at their table.

"So…how exactly do you plan on doing this?" Anders tugged on his leather boots and tried to not notice the flecks of blood left over from their activities the previous evening.

"He can't see me, or know you're a Grey Warden, or else he'll assume we're holding him for desertion...if not worse. I think our best bet is to carry on the ruse from last night. Throw my mask on him, get a drunk cart, and wheel him to the stables. I'll beg an extra horse from the Guard and tell them he's a conscript," Brand looked thoughtful. "If they ask, he tried to pick-pocket us last night and we got into a scrap. That will explain the bruises and why we would want him as a recruit- bold enough to attack the Commander of the Grey, skilled enough to survive the encounter."

She was good. That was exactly the sort of line the guard would swallow like it was covered in gravy.

"And if he wakes up during all this?"

"Put him back to sleep, or make him so out of it that he won't remember any of this," that was an order. "Until we're half-way to the Vigil, more or less. I don't want him in a position where he can run back to Eamon."

"Eamon? What does he have to do with all of this?" Anders had only met the Arl of Redcliffe once and that was before he'd...well, even before the sum total of Eamon's recent losses had unraveled his increasingly tenuous connection with reality. Brand sighed, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, as if that would do anything to stem the tide of guilt that rose within her at the mention of her brother-in-law _your_ former_ brother-in-law_.

"He brought Alistair here. At the very least, that's who Alistair was meeting in Amaranthine. Him or an associate. I don't know what he's thinking, of course, except maybe that he's gone mad with guilt over not doing more to..." there was a flicker of shame in Brand's green eyes. It passed, her voice becoming clipped, "Eamon raised Alistair before he was sent to the Chantry to become a templar. It was Eamon's idea to put him forward as king at the Landsmeet, and he...he didn't do anything to help him when he was exiled."

What Brand left out, of course, was her own role in the destruction of a man who had been, at a time, one of the most powerful and beloved figures in the country. The death of his wife _let it be my blood, I will be the sacrifice_, Alistair's exile, losing his brother to senseless violence..._His brother? Is that what you're calling him now, Brand? _They were all direct results of decisions _she_ had made.

And yet, even during her recent visit to his estate in Denerim, he treated her with unflagging respect and seemed genuinely sad when she took her leave. The ghosts were with him, though, evident in the way he talked about those long lost- his siblings, Isolde, King Maric, Cailan and even Alistair _but Alistair's right here_- as if they were merely chatting in his parlor until he could join them for an afternoon tea. _I wish he hated me. It would be so much easier that way._

"Do you need to know anything else?" The question came out far harsher than she intended; Brand knew it was out of line the moment the last word left her mouth. With the revelation about Alistair, Anders only knew about half of this story. Still, she didn't apologize.

"No, no. I was just making polite conversation," this more than matched Brand's irritable tone and the mage did not care. He swung his pack over his shoulder and secured his staff to his back, getting into Grey Warden mode. They had more important things to do than talk.

His eyes shifted to the man and he felt a rather complicated rush of emotions. Mostly, though, he thought of the bite mark on Brand's neck; it was as vicious as anything a darkspawn might leave behind. Anders sincerely hoped that the man woke up at least once or twice on their ride to the Vigil. Although he knew it didn't actually hurt, the very act of zapping someone who'd harmed his Commander was cathartic. _The templar thing is just a very nice bonus._

"Are we ready?" Brand's voice broke into his thoughts. "We'll have to do this as quickly and cleanly as possible."

_Oof._ Anders' stomach gave a dread little twist. He'd felt relatively safe in their cozy room in Marigold's Boarding House; good things had happened here. The idea of hauling the possible figurehead of a possible rebellion through the streets of Amaranthine _in broad daylight _was starting to not sit well with him n_ever mind the logistical difficulties_. Brand, sensing he had his misgivings, narrowed her eyes slightly. All of her Wardens knew what that look meant, Anders best of all.

"Right, right. To business."

"To business."


	8. Knives

Alistair awoke inside the mouth of a dragon.

Through one bleary eye he could make out little more than a row of sharp, curving teeth and, past that, his own hands tied in front of him. He flexed his fingers; they were stiff from being bound and his right hand was swollen from...he cast his mind back, trying to capture a memory from the dark. There was a woman's voice in his ear, low and calm and achingly familiar, and then a desperate plunge into panic. _Let's not dwell on that right now._

Suddenly, he was aware that he was swaying. It wasn't the rhythmic motion of the boat, lulling him into nightmares that were far better than his current reality, but rather the...

"Maker, am I on a _horse_?" Alistair barely recognized his own voice as he all but shouted this question, reaching his bound hands to remove the dragon from his head only to discover that he was also tethered to the saddle.

"Oh, for the love of..." this voice came from his right, and Alistair turned to confront his traveling companion. It was a man who looked to be about his age, a pale fellow with straw-blond hair pulled back from his face. Alistair recognized him...the mage. A bolt of anger went through him _calm down, he did heal you_ as he recalled being hit by a spell and th...

...Alistair jerked again and it was dark...had it been dark earlier? His head was humming and only when he shook it in an attempt to stop the sound did he realize that he no longer wore the dragon mask. His hands were also free; he pressed them against his chest in the hopes they'd loosen up. It felt as though they'd been slammed in a door and then frozen solid.

Looking around, he saw they were currently stopped on a narrow road flanked by low stone walls, past which farmland rolled as far as the moonlight allowed him to see. Ahead, the road twisted into a forest, climbing towards a cluster of hills. There were faint lights shimmering in the distance. It had been so long since he'd been in Ferelden...could they be nearing a settlement?

The soft snort of a horse reminded him that he wasn't alone. He glanced over at the mage astride his modestly sized white mount, seemingly lost in the task of staring into the darkness.

"Why are we stopped?" Speaking was torture, his throat raw. The mage kept his gaze on the road.

"There could be men up ahead," he turned to Alistair, worry etched into his face. "We might need to fight. If I gave you a weapon, can I trust you not to turn it on us?"

This question stunned Alistair. The truth was that he was far too disoriented to be much of a threat against anyone. He should have said this. Instead he remembered a table rushing up at him, and how his mind had been shut down in mid-thought not too long ago.

"I dunno, can I trust you not to knock me out again? You seem to take particular joy in that."

The mage turned away, but Alistair caught the clenching of his jaw. His voice was low when he said this: "I was acting on orders. You attacked us both and we needed to get you out of Amaranthine. We couldn't risk you turning on us again or attracting unwanted attention." He tilted his head, and shot Alistair a sideways glance, "Alhough I have to admit I didn't protest _too_ much when told I could zap you at will. Even though you're obviously no pawn of the Chantry, you did try to pull that little templar stunt on me."

"Don't care for templars, huh?" _Why are you goading him? Do you want to be zapped again_? "Can't imagine why, they have such _affection_ for apostates."

"You're remarkably _mouthy_ for someone who probably can't recall the past week of his life."

_Try the past five years_. Alistair geared up for a comeback, but was interrupted by a blue spark in the distance. "Did you see that?"

The mage nodded gravely, drawing an elaborate dagger from his robes. It was the same blade he had held against Alistair earlier that day_ or was it weeks ago? I don't even know anymore_ and now he was offering it with grim eyes. Alistair didn't reach for it.

"How do I know that you're not asking me to take up arms against good people?"

"I guess you don't. All you _do_ know is that you've been unconscious for Maker knows how long and we haven't killed you yet. And, since we've given you your own horse, we're obviously not too concerned about holding you, either. Don't know many _bad_ people who'd go through the trouble, really. But it's your decision, and you need to make it _now_."

Alistair grabbed the dagger and weighed it in his hand. It was heavy, well-balanced, and exquisitely crafted with green and blue enamel inlays in the hilt and an extensively engraved blade. "Who or _what_ is 'Anderseses'?"

There was no response from the mage, instead he urged his horse forward and Alistair followed. It had been a few years since he'd ridden as a...messenger...in Antiva. He'd not been particularly fond of the experience then _or maybe it was just the work that left a bad taste in your mouth _but he was an adequate rider. And the horse he was on, a lithe chestnut, responded without much guidance at all, taking his lead from the mage's mount.

They moved at a canter for almost a mile. Alistair could see the tension in the other man's shoulders as he searched the dark tree-line ahead for any sign of their scout. _You could run while he's distracted, just take off across the farms until you come to a town. No one would be suspicious of a stinky, half-starved man with a broken jaw, right?_ Without warning, the mage pulled his horse to a halt and Alistair's own reacted by allowing a peeved little whinny.

The two men sat in silence for a few moments. Alistair was about to ask why they'd stopped when he heard it- the familiar sound of metal clashing against metal. It was coming from ahead, somewhere just beyond where the trees thickened and the road began to climb.

The mage was desperately trying to get a fix on the battle before rushing in, not wanting to go too far in the wrong direction or give their enemy too advanced a warning. Suddenly, tearing through the night, was a noise that spurred the men and their beasts into action. It was a scream- a horrible, nightmarish cry that seemed to have shot from the forest and _how is it that someone so lovely can make such an utterly terrible sound_ straight through Alistair's stomach.

_No. _No._ Nonononono._

His horse was running full speed ahead, matching the pace set by the mage. With better knowledge of these woods, he would have taken the lead. The scream sounded again and the mage, never slowing, grabbed his staff and aimed it at Alistair. For a split second, Alistair was afraid he was going to black out. Instead, the spell poured warmly over him and a myriad pains he had been trying very hard to ignore simply disappeared.

The forest grew thicker, the sounds of battle grew louder, and the horses were forced to step more carefully lest they get ensnared by an exposed root or trip over a fallen tree. The sudden downshift in speed was maddening to both men, panicked as they were by the periodic cries that rang through the forest around them. Alistair's heart was pounding and every beat echoed "no" even as every shout drove another knife in him _I didn't know I still had feeling left_. There was one last cry, weaker than the others, and all the more frightening for it.

And then there was only the muffled thuds of hooves on dirt and the soft clatter of boots in stirrups. Alistair thought his head might explode if they didn't see something or someone, but that was before the bodies started. They were scattered in more or less a straight line, slaughtered men in blood-splattered mail that gleamed dully in the leaf-filtered moonlight. The mage led his horse along the path of fresh corpses, counting softly, his tone growing more distraught with each number...

"five, six, seven...eight, Oh Maker, where is his head...nine. _Ten_. Eleventwelve..."

"Anders..."

The voice cut from the darkness; the mage was off of his horse and stumbling towards it before Alistair could even react. Not that he would have been able to react. His hands were gripping the reins so tightly he was certain the leather straps were well on their way to becoming a permanent addition to his flesh.

_It just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?_

_Probably because we're too smart for you._

_True. But if you're here, what does that make you?_

_Just one of the boys?_

Alistair's horse crept towards the mage, as if sensing its rider's apprehension.

"Maker's breath, what happened to you?...No. Don't talk, please don't talk, you need to _not _talk and hold still and..._Maker_. Brand, what did they do to you?"

The horse stopped and all Alistair could do was helplessly watch.

She was there, not ten feet away, leaning back against a tree _any other person in the world would be off their feet but Brand Cousland can't do anything normally_ and Anders was on his knees, trying to assess where to start and how much blood was hers. She shifted and Alistair caught the glint of metal at her stomach and saw that there was a dagger buried just below her ribcage. He was assaulted by sense memory- the heat of her skin on his lips and tongue as he teased his way down her and it gave way to another sensation- her struggling beneath him as he held her between his teeth and _why would you do such a thing to _anyone_, let alone her?_

"Anders."

"Don't talk, just hold still." Blue light flared in the night and threw Brand's face in sharp relief. _She looks exactly the same, she's still so..._

"Anders!"

"Please, I need to..."

"_Anders_!"

The mage reeled back and stared up at Brand. Was she going to demand he stop healing her? It was something that she would do- Alistair realized this with sickening certainty. Would the man follow her orders, or would he knock her out for her own good?

"Anders, pull this bleeding knife from me and heal it so we can go."

"_What_? Have you gone mad? Do you actually think you're going to walk away..."

"Yes. I _do_ think I'm going to walk away, because I have a sodding keep full of people who might be in danger," she gasped here, as the effort of talking with a dagger through her took its toll. "Knife, out. Heal, _now_."

There was no arguing with this. Anders placed his hand around the blade, assessing the angle at which it had gone in. Then he reached into a pack slung at his hips and brought out a length of cloth, holding it in his left hand while his right wrapped around the hilt.

"This might hurt a little," the words were meant to lighten the mood, but Alistair heard a clear quiver of fear in his voice. Brand nodded, bracing herself against the tree _get over there you ass and let her grab onto you, even if she breaks you in two it's no less than you deserve_, looking skyward.

She did not so much as cry out when Anders pulled the short blade in one fluid movement. He threw it aside, pressing the cloth to the now gushing wound, and began to fervently cast healing spell after healing spell as she slid down towards him. He caught her as she fell, laying her back with tremendous care before pulling a jar and another compress from his pack. He poured the content of the jar on the wound; Alistair had sympathy pains when Brand's back arched with agony as the liquid sizzled against her flesh, remembering how his face had similarly burned at its touch.

"You need to hold still, or I'm going to start calling you Bryce," Anders voice had become gentle, his hands moving quickly as he applied an herbal compound to her wound. "Don't make me challenge you to a game of Human Statue."

Brand's lips curved at this, even at a distance Alistair could see the weak smile, and she reached up to feebly brush Anders cheek with one gloved hand, painting his face with a smear that looked black in the night. "I'm _never_ going to be redolent of spring flowers or rain if you keep slathering me in that stuff."

Her hand fell to her chest and her eyes closed. Anders continued to fuss with the poultice while Alistair tried his best to ignore the swell of _jealousy, you're incredibly jealous right now even though she's probably going to die and...are they _together_? Of course she's moved on, it's been six years _concern. Without realizing it, he had slid from his mount and was cautiously approaching Anders, frustration creeping up his spine _why has he stopped trying to heal her? She looks like she's already dead…_"Why have you stopped healing her?"

Anders twisted back, startled by the voice coming from behind him. The look he gave Alistair was haunting- worry creasing his forehead, Brand's blood streaked across his face. "You're a templar, you should know I only have so much at my disposal."

"But…what about lyrium potions? Don't you carry them with you?"

"Do you think if I had any on me right now I would be sitting here waiting?" He shook his head forlornly and turned back to Brand, pressing his fingers to her neck to assess her heartbeat.

Alistair whipped around in annoyance, unable to watch the other man hover over Brand like that. It never come across so intimate when it was Wynne healing her _why do you even care it's all her fault that you_...and he saw a bag a few feet in front of him, a smallish pack. He grabbed it and tore it open, nearly spilling the contents to the ground. Shaking it, he stuck his hand in and emerged with three small vials. Two of them were filled with blue liquid…

"Here, use these!" Alistair threw them at the surprised mage, who uncorked them with some difficulty _his hands are slick with her blood_ and drank them simultaneously. After a moment's hesitation over which tactic to use, he held both hands over the center of Brand's chest and Alistair was stunned to see the crackle of lightning between her breast and the mage's fingertips.

"Andraste's sword, what are you _doing_ to her?"

Anders didn't respond, choosing to press down on her and trying healing again. There was no response. He pulled his hands back and this time gave her a good, solid shock that caused her entire body to convulse. Alistair reached behind his back for the dagger he'd stuck there, seriously tempted to use it against the mage. The only thing that stopped him was the flickering of Brand's eyelids as she regained consciousness.

"T-t-t-tea…" she coughed; her eyes closed again and then reopened slowly.

"Oh, thank the Maker," relief was evident in his voice and posture as the mage leaned back on his heels. Brand sat up slowly, wincing as her wounded side contracted.

"Was I out for long?" Her hands were already reaching for dropped weapons; Anders caught them between his.

"Brand, you can't do…whatever you're planning on doing," he let out a tiny sigh when she pulled from his grip. "We need to _very carefully_ get you on your horse and _very carefully_ get you to the Vigil."

"No, we need to very quickly get to the Vigil, before any of these men do."

Anders dropped his head in frustration, a gesture that Alistair himself was familiar with. _Some things never change, and apparently Brand will always be the most stubborn woman in Thedas_. "What are you so worried about? Have you forgotten that you have a small army at the Vigil, including thirty Wardens and fifteen knights? And Varel would have received your message by now, so he'll be on alert."

"Of _course_ I haven't forgotten that. What worries me is that I don't know who these men are- I don't know who sent them, how they knew we were coming, and why they attacked me," she carefully got on her knees, nearly falling in the process. Anders steadied her, keeping his hand on her hip. Alistair turned away, unable to watch anymore. Brand continued, "If I don't know who my enemy is, I can't expect my men, who haven't seen me for over a week, to know who my enemy is. What if it's someone we trust, and they are allowed in? _Welcomed_ in, even? What if…"

Anders sighed again, this time signaling defeat. "You're right, Commander. You just have to promise me that, once we've gotten to the Vigil and you've shouted orders at everyone, you will run _straight_ to Fiona and let her take care of you."

"Of course. But I don't know how much running I'll be doing..."

"If I have to carry you, my lady, I will gladly carry you. Well, a few feet at least. I am a mage, after all. Weak wrists are the curse of my kind."

Alistair wished he could shut out the sound of Brand's laughter pealing through the forest, robust despite her injuries. It wasn't quite as ebullient as he'd remembered but it was a sharp reminder he didn't need of nights he'd tried so hard to forget. While _they_ were occupied with their discussion, Alistair stuck his hand back in the pack he'd found. There were some papers within, and a scroll _probably the scroll I was supposed to present in Amaranthine_. His fingers closed around a small object and he pulled out a well-crafted ring.

It was difficult to see clearly in the moonlight, but Alistair knew the contours of this piece of jewelry like he knew the back of his own hand. He remembered being five or six years old and stealing one very similar from Arl Eamon's desk, using it to stamp the Guerrin family crest into the dirt yard outside of Redcliffe Castle. Why would this be in Brand's pack? What use could she have…his good eye narrowed as the snake of a realization entered his mind. _What if you were never supposed to meet Eamon at all? What if his letter was a forgery, a lure? _Alistair decided to hang onto the ring.

With his find discreetly pocketed _one useful skill learned during my time abroad_, Alistair rejoined Anders and Brand. He was helping her onto her horse, a sleek black gelding that must have appeared from the shadows. Feeling bold, Alistair stepped forward to offer up the pack. It was taken and thrown over her shoulder without so much as a glance in his direction.

_Does she even know I'm here?_ Alistair bit back the urge to shout..._something_ at her. She had kidnapped him off of his boat, allowed her boyfriend to magically manhandle him and then drag him out to the middle of nowhere, all the while keeping him knocked out and in the dark. To make no mention of...

"Let's go," Anders' fingers were firm on his elbow. Alistair blinked, noticing that Brand was already heading towards the road. He suddenly felt bone-tired as whatever fight he had in him evaporated in the wake of her retreat.

"Yes. Let's just...get away from here."

The trio rode towards Vigil's Keep as silently as they could, only allowing the muted clip-clop of hooves to interfere with their intensive listening. Storm clouds were gathering overhead, the moon crowded out of its own sky. With the night even deeper than before, the impenetrable shade alongside the road could hold any number of tribulations.

It was in times like this that Brand couldn't help but remember the words spoken by Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds, after they'd been rescued from the darkspawn horde at Ostagar:

_Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature._

Brand was well-practiced at slaying tainted creatures, both those tainted by the Taint, and those tainted by avarice, lust and any number of other demons. She'd also had the chance to pull apart a few of those man-shaped beasts _I suppose you think I'm some sort of monster; you keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently_, to see how a heart could beat when it seemingly pumped nothing but ill intent. During these conversations and cross-examinations, an important discovery had been made: Flemeth was right.

Despite all that had befallen her, it was a hard fact to accept even as her position as Warden-Commander and Arlessa of Amaranthine brought her in close contact with an inordinate amount of these lowlifes, to make no mention of what she'd dealt with before and during the Blight _your father would be proud; I, on the other hand, want you dead more than ever_.

Now, as she bounded towards home with a dagger wound in her side, she was puzzling over the attack in the forest and how it might tie in with the Crows, the assassination contract, and Alistair being brought to Ferelden by Eamon. Whose shadowed heart had set these events into motion? The men had been after _her_, and single-mindedly. Each one watched his brethren fall before attacking her, eyes stricken with the knowledge that, even if they could bring her down, they would more than likely be killed in the process. It was clearly a suicide mission.

Without talking to Alistair, or Eamon, Brand would not be able to place the men's motives. The idea of either conversation was equally dread-inducing. At least Eamon would require less back story. Alistair's head might explode if he knew what had transpired since he'd left her at the Landsmeet _so I made Loghain impregnate Morrigan with an Old God baby, very nearly died during the Archdemon battle, got married within months of ending the Blight, made Howe's son a Warden, was experimented on by a super-intelligent talking darkspawn, almost died in childbirth, caused my husband's death by way of my own stupid bravado and now I'm caboodling with one of my men. _She herself had become numb to much of it. Except the Anders part. That was quite new.

The more she thought about it, the more her brain resisted. She was also unbelievably exhausted, having slept about four hours in the past two days. _To say nothing of almost dying about ten minutes ago. _It seemed the most expedient course of action would be to focus on not getting jumped in the short distance between here and the Vigil.

That, however, wasn't to be.

There were only four of them that attacked, but they came out of the shadows at a run just as Brand passed, their horses quicker than her own and their swords drawn. Anders and Alistair were further back, Anders keeping an eye on both the templar and his commander. When he saw the men appear out of the darkness as if they'd been cut from it, he dug his heels into his horse's sides, urging her forward. With his staff drawn, he was able to cast a spell that would render one man immobile and then shock another mount off-course. The two remaining men were flanking Brand, one slashed out with his longsword, swiping it along her thigh and finding a gap in her armor. Anders saw her hose split beneath the blade and glossy blood spilled forth from a wound nearly half a foot long.

_Andraste help me I am going to lock her in her room for _months_ if she survives this night. _He held his staff steady and poured forth a gust of flame that ignited the bastard who'd sliced her leg open. The assailant flailed off his horse in a most melodramatic fashion, and Anders allowed himself a small smile at the sight.

Alistair handled the fourth man, riding up just behind him and sinking into his side a blade Anders hadn't seen him grab. Anders sealed his fate, casting a bolt of lightning that hit his horse's hindquarter, sending it rearing while the rider helplessly tumbled backwards, the sword left behind by Alistair getting driven completely through as he impacted the ground.

The trio did not pause to assess the damage. Anders got off one healing spell before Brand forced her horse into a full-on gallop. He and Alistair, exchanging the conspiratorial glances of men who'd just fought a common enemy _and done a really badass job of it_, followed her lead without hesitation.


	9. Convergence

Thunder rolled and lightning split the sky as the trio approached Vigil's Keep. It was a monstrous thing, this Vigil; Alistair could barely comprehend the scope of it, half-blind as he was and more concerned with the blood he saw dripping down Brand's leg as she dismounted. Anders was attending to her, of course, his hands steadying her before she leaned in to whisper in his ear. Whatever she said, it caused him to pull back quickly and keep his distance, although he continued watching with obvious concern.

Alistair fought back a wave of resentment and closed his eye, hoping that not seeing her would help him decompress. All evening, since the sound of her battle cries entered his head, he felt as though he was colliding with some past version of himself, as if at some point _this_ Alistair would merge with _that_ Alistair. How awkward would that be? Would past Alistair be able to prevent his undoing at her hands? Or would present Alistair be where Anders was, in a position to hold her, to help her, and to openly fret over her well-being?

Their horses gone, they entered the main yard on foot. It was an expanse of trampled grass centered on a non-descript well. About twenty men in various stages of alertness stood at attention, not the least of which was a gentleman in shining ceremonial armor rivaled only by his own silvery locks. Brand approached him, shoulders back, chin up, and his head inclined in a slight bow. She returned this with genuine respect. Alistair found the formality unsettling. This was Brand- Brand who hated titles and had pet names for everyone she met. Yet here she was now, bowing and being bowed to. _Strange._

"Commander," the older man's voice was quiet, low and rough; his demeanor spoke of near infinite patience. _No doubt that quality serves him well on nights like this._

"I hope that you haven't been waiting too long, Varel."

"Every wait is too long when you have no idea the threat nor the severity," this was not a recrimination but a statement of fact. Brand indicated her agreement.

"You're right, Varel, and I apologize for the vagueness of my message. I fear this entire situation is far murkier than either of us would like," there was something about this statement that struck Alistair as coded. Varel turned his palm out to gesture towards the assembled men beside him.

"We can discuss this later. Give us your orders for now and we will follow them."

Without hesitation, Brand summoned Anders forward, "Find Fiona, tell her I'll need to see her immediately. She should be with Bryce, relieve her and I'll be up as soon as I can to give your next orders."

The sky opened then, rain splattering the yard and the men in it. Brand turned her face upwards, eyes closed, and Alistair watched as droplets slid down her cheeks to her neck, remembering how she had done the same thing when the storm started at Ostagar_, _the two images almost perfectly overlapped in his mind. He felt an echo of an emotion nearly seven years old, that first small surge of affection for the strange and lovely woman in front of him.

"Commander," Anders was also staring into the sky, cringing as a particularly fat drop splashed his forehead. "I assume you'll want me to close the windows?"

She smiled briefly, caught in profile, "Yes, please. Bryce will have them open."

The mage ran inside with his orders, and Alistair regarded Brand thoughtfully. This was the second time he'd heard mention of a Bryce _I will be heading to Highever. Teryn Bryce Cousland has invited me to his home to recruit one of his knights_; _I hope that he will give me the chance to test his daughter as well _but Teryn Bryce had died before the Blight, hadn't he? If he required an attendant, perhaps it meant that he'd somehow survived Howe's attack and was an invalid.

"Garavel," a grave-faced man with curly blond hair stepped forward. "Garavel, I need the perimeter constantly patrolled. You can decide the most effective set up. I want Remiah and Lemmy in the towers," she jerked her chin towards a pair of identical elves in dark armor. They were ghost pale, almost delicate looking, with close-cropped black hair and heavily shadowed ebony eyes.

"Yes, Commander," only one spoke but both appeared deeply honored to be named by Brand.

"Nate and Baron will relieve you in six hours. Do not leave your posts until they arrive. Your main objective is to watch the gates," she started speaking to the gathered crowd. "Nobody will be allowed in unless I approve it, and when I say "nobody" I mean just that. The only other person in this keep who can authorize entrance is Oghren, and he will need to speak to me beforehand. I don't care if your mother is at that gate. Politely explain that the Vigil is not open for visitors and turn her away. If she refuses to leave, give the signal and our archers will take it from there."

"Commander, are you sure that's entirely necessary?" The man called Garavel sneered.

"Absolutely necessary," Brand spoke with stone cold confidence and it was a credit to Garavel's audacity that he did not flinch at her tone. "The men who attacked us on our way here bore no identity. Until I know what is going on and who is behind it, I will _not_ risk infiltration. After all, this is our _home_."

Relenting but apparently unwilling to let the Commander have the last word, he pointed to Alistair, "And what of him? He seems a likely candidate for the title of 'infiltrator.' I wouldn't want _that_ wandering around _my_ home."

By the way Brand's jaw tightened, Alistair could tell that she'd been hoping that no one in the yard would notice her new companion, much less call her out on his presence.

"This…man," it was a struggle for her to keep the word neutral. "This man is important to…this man could be key in finding out what is going on here."

"How do we know that _this man_ isn't the cause of all your problems?" As if she was nothing more than a private, Garavel continued to press. Brand, for her part, remained nonplussed_ I don't care what Sten thinks about my motives and tactics, so long as he falls in line and does what I need him to do in the end_.

"We don't."

"Then what do you plan on doing to ensure our safety?"

"Sers Bluth and Barkley, you will escort him to the holding cell. Give him a pitcher of water and blankets, of course, and stay with him until Anders arrives with food and medicine. He will also have additional orders, and you are to follow them without question."

At long last she turned to Alistair, acknowledging him for the first time since he'd been saved. Nothing was given away in her expression- even her eyes remained carefully blank. Alistair prayed that his own did not betray the sudden twisting of his heart. Despite himself and the reaction he knew he _should_ have, seeing her this close was far more intensely stirring than he cared to admit.

"I apologize in advance for the accommodations," this was clipped but sincere. "It will be a few hours before I am able to speak with you, so I am depending on my men to make your wait as comfortable as possible."

As Brand turned to walk away, Alistair withdrew Anders' dagger from its place at the small of his back. It was his intent to pass it off to her. From the way her men automatically responded by drawing their own weapons, his purpose must have come across far less innocently.

"Lower your weapon," Garavel spoke with a predatory growl and Brand spun back to Alistair, her eyes widening when she saw the blade in his hand.

"Garavel, stand down at once!" Without further hesitation, she pulled the dagger from Alistair's grasp, allowing her gloved fingers to brush his own. Even through the layer of leather, the contact sent shivers up his arm. "Anders will appreciate having this returned to him. Thank you.

"Now, I believe everyone has their orders. Varel, if you will escort me to my meeting with Fiona…" Brand had moved on, accepting Varel's arm when he offered it. Nobody else seemed to notice, but Alistair could tell that it was less an affectionate interaction and more a necessary one; she was leaving faint, bloody boot prints in her wake. Alistair watched her retreat with growing concern, keeping her in his view for as long as he could before Bluth and Barkley came to show him towards his new accommodations.

The building that housed his cell was just off the yard, and Alistair found himself surprised at the simplicity of the interior. It was just a stonewalled room, long and narrow with a desk and chair, a trunk for personal affects, and then a single cell. He stepped in willingly and allowed himself to be impressed by the cleanliness of these facilities. The straw mattress even looked inviting; he took a seat on it, leaning back against the wall and examining his new captors.

They were both younger men, late twenties at the most, stout and non-descript. Bluth was balding with a hawk-nose and Barkley wore his copper hair long and skinned back from his chiseled face. After a brief squabble, Barkley stepped out to fetch Alistair some creature comforts. Bluth stayed behind to observe, his hazel eyes sharp. Alistair, realizing that his dampened bandages were coming off, gingerly pulled them away from the sticky sore skin beneath.

"Maker, what happened to your face?" The question was so blunt that Alistair almost had to laugh.

"I cut myself shaving. Obviously."

"Oh, a smartass. You certainly sound like someone that's spent time with Commander and that...wizard of hers. You're lucky this cell is open. Our main prison isn't half so luxurious. Commander hates keeping anyone there, calls it the torture chamber."

"You torture people here?"

Bluth scoffed, "Not anymore. I'm sure Howe kept the screams coming when this was his, but Commander is opposed to such practices."

As well she should be. Alistair would never forget, _could _never forget_,_ the way Brand had clung to him after her escape from Fort Drakon, after her journey through Rendon Howe's basement in Denerim. The atrocities witnessed in both places scarred her. She sliced her way through hundreds of men and thousands of darkspawn, but it would be the heaps of distorted humanity and flayed bodies that haunted the edges of her vision. It hit her far too closely. _Armed combat is fair. Chaining a man and wielding a whip or turning a crank when all he can do is scream and die by inches is abhorrent._

"Wait, this was Howe's? How did it..."

"Queen Anora and Teryn Fergus bequeathed Howe's lands to the Wardens after the Blight. Was either Amaranthine or Gwaren, I suppose."

"So...who rules here now?"

"You mean the arling? Commander is the Arlessa, too. To be honest, she's mostly Arlessa now and leaves much of the commanding to Oghren, ever since..." Bluth trailed off, suddenly aware that he might be treading dangerously close to full-blown gossip. "Not that you could tell back in the yard, eh? She can certainly bring it when she wants to."

"It seems not all her men share this impression," Alistair shifted slightly, intrigued by these fine details of the happenings at Vigil's Keep.

"Ooh, Garavel? That git is...well, a git. He's lucky Commander tolerates such dissent. She says it gives her perspective to be taken to task like that. No way to talk to your superior, though. No way at all."

This, also, was too true of Brand. How many nights had she spent by the fire in camp, patiently absorbing the litany of her recent mistakes as they rolled off the tongues of her companions? Sten and Morrigan were undoubtedly the most aggressive. Some nights, though, even Wynne and Leliana gave her grief, usually over the less savory tasks she undertook to earn the party a bit of extra coin. She might firmly override them, but never once did she pull the Grey Warden in Charge card, no matter how misguided or petty the complaint.

_Well_ I_ just got a lecture on nutrition; Wynne thinks we should be eating more vegetables and less cheese. And Shale is bothered by my breathing...and your breathing. Oh, Oghren thinks I should be naked more. _That_ one I might be willing to manage, but certainly not to _his_ satisfaction._

In the end, Alistair imagined that she did it as much for them as she did for herself. Why not let those fighting alongside her feel as though they had a voice..._whether that was true or not_? He had an unbidden flare of memory, anger flashing as he recalled with painful clarity the one time he _needed _her to hear what he was saying only to see her turn away from him.

The quick mental shift to the Landsmeet caused pinpricks of heat to dance on his skin. The sense of compression from earlier, when he and the man he'd been before the Landsmeet seemed impossibly close, was gone. _You have become someone else entirely; you have been turned inside out, you have done terrible things, and you can _never_ go back. _Something crawled within his mind; it felt like subtle dissent, as if there was another truth buried there. For the first time since arriving in Ferelden he wanted a drink. He knew that, if nothing else, it would feed his belligerence and rid him of the flickers of jealousy _and hope and longing_ that plagued him all evening.

In the absence of alcohol, he found his feet and leaned against the bars of his cell, eyeing Bluth with ill-intent.

"I attacked your commander," he pressed his forehead against cool metal, imagining that he appeared quite deranged. "She came to save me, and I attacked her."

Bluth shifted backwards, his hand steady on the hilt of his sword, "What are you talking about?"

"You asked me what happened to my face, and I'm telling you. I didn't _really_ hurt myself shaving."

"Commander did...._that_ to you?" From his expression, Bluth was equal parts sickened and impressed.

Alistair lowered his voice to an obscene purr, "But you should see what I did to _her_."

Color left the knight's face and his eye's went dark with disgust, "Maker, what kind of monster are you?"

Pulling back from the bars, Alistair felt a peculiar mixture of pride and intense self-loathing. It wouldn't do for these people to continue to treat him like a houseguest, he was confused enough already. Without another word he dropped to his mattress, facing the wall, and remained still, even after Barkley returned with water and a blanket.

According to Brand's orders, Anders would be down soon. _Unless he gets held up for some reason_. An image of her in the mage's arms filled his head; it was Anders kissing her neck, breathing her in and feeling her quickened heartbeat against his lips just as Alistair had done so many times before. _That_ was an affirmation of life, of love, of human need. This was replaced by a darker image, literally so- Alistair in the lightless cabin with Brand injured and unfairly pinned beneath him. _That_ was a culmination of fear, of anger, of desperation; she was there to help him, and it was the last thing he wanted _or deserved_.

_Come with me, and you'll be safe._

Alistair pressed his hands against his forehead and swallowed a sob. This was exactly what he needed to avoid, the convergence of the man he had become and the man he used to be. There would be no easy merging; one had done things the other couldn't begin to believe, much less understand. By leaving Ferelden, he'd managed to establish a protective shell around his life from his recruitment into the Wardens to the Landsmeet. Everything that happened during that time belonged to an innocent Alistair and the woman he came to love; it could be revisited but never revised. Now, with Brand back in his life, those memories would be touched by what followed and was yet to come.

He saw her again, years ago and tens of minutes ago, facing the rain with calm contentment, storms that shook most men soothing to a woman who'd withstood so much. Her eyes opened and she caught him watching her. There was distortion then as one Brand checked herself with an embarrassed grin while the other turned to stone. He tried to recall the ecstatic little lurch he'd felt all those years ago at the sight of her slight smile, but it had already slipped away and he felt nothing but..._nothing_.

_This is how I lose it all_, Alistair pushed his cheek hard against the mattress, the straw within bristling back. _My birthright, my honor, my humanity are gone. And now I get to say good-bye to the vestiges of the only happiness I ever knew. It's the last thing I ever wanted to happen, but Maker knows it's probably still more than I deserve._


	10. Foundations

It had been four years since Varel, the seneschal of Vigil's Keep, had last carried his arlessa bleeding through the castle. The night she went into labor, Varel discovered her collapsed in the throne room, weeping uncontrollably. Arl Teagan had taken most of her men to provide emergency services to flooded settlements in the surrounding area, leaving the keep understaffed. She knew that the baby was dying inside of her and she couldn't find anyone to help her save him.

Tonight was not as bad, at least for Brand. She was out as soon as they entered the main hall, her resolve to maintain a strong face in front of the men evaporating the moment they could no longer see her. Varel, on the other hand, was almost beyond his capability to keep calm while dragging her limp form to the infirmary. With her cloak open, he could clearly see the slice in her leg and the blood oozing from her stomach. Whoever had attacked the Commander of the Grey had not been looking to take prisoners.

The Senior Warden at Vigil's Keep was an elven mage named Fiona, a pale woman with short black and silver hair and endlessly expressive brown eyes. When Varel crashed through the infirmary door, Brand in tow, those eyes went wide with horrified surprise. Obviously, Anders had left out a few details in what was probably a brutally brief briefing.

Within seconds, Fiona and her two apprentices had Brand propped on the edge of a large tub already filled in anticipation of her arrival. Varel watched the three women go to work pulling her armor off, cutting when necessary, and trying not to further the damage with their razor sharp scissors. He could stand it only so long; he was no healer and had never developed a stomach for gore, especially when it came to those he cared about. And Brand looked so... _ruined_. Wordlessly, he backed out of the infirmary and into the hallway to await word of her well-being, his job done for the moment.

None of the women saw Varel leave, so focused were they on their patient. All were quite unprepared for what they saw when they stripped away the last of her leathers; Brand's injuries went far beyond what Anders had handled. A series of gashes formed a ladder down her left arm, her right rib-cage was a massive bruise centered on a star-shaped puncture, and a network of contusions spanned her backside. The entirety of it stung horrifically as three pairs of hands submerged her. With a gasp, she regained consciousness and immediately clenched against the urge to cry out as the apprentices sloughed off dirt, dried blood and poultice residue to see the extent of the damage beneath.

Fiona was pacing madly during all this; pausing to cast a spell to staunch the worst of the bleeding before she resumed fretting. It wasn't until Brand had been cleaned, toweled off and walked to the nearest bed that Fiona began to work in earnest, her inky brows knotting in concentration as she assessed her patient.

"You are a fool, but a lucky one." This was the official diagnosis. Brand felt a small surge of relief; if Fiona could insult her, that meant the news wasn't _all _bad. The mage saved her bedside manners for those who weren't long for the world. "Whatever stabbed you managed to avoid doing any real damage, and most everything else just _looks _terrible. The blood loss is definitely the worst of it."

Brand spent the next hour sitting as still as she possibly could while Fiona washed, healed, stitched and dressed her wounds. The effort of such an extensive project was exhausting and Brand felt intensely guilty for putting so much on the older woman, and at such an unseemly hour.

The work was mostly done in silence, Fiona only muttering under her breath or snapping instructions to her aids. That was, until she made her way up to the bite mark on Brand's shoulder. Although the least of her injuries, it was tender to the touch and still looked absolutely vicious.

"Who did this to you?" Fiona's dark eyes narrowed in disgust, as if her irritation alone could hurt the perpetrator. Brand very nearly told the truth, but the image of Alistair's face when they were in the yard came back to her. He'd looked…haunted. She wondered what he must be thinking, if he realized that she was the woman on the ship, if he cared to even know or would care _you are heading down a dangerous path _if he did know.

Instead of honesty, Brand chose an unverifiable half-truth, "I received it in Amaranthine. Some men attacked us and one of them bit me."

"Did you kill him?"

_In a way._

"He _looked _dead."

Fiona snorted, dabbing at the teeth marks with a treated cloth. The solution she used was far less stringent than Anders' favored kind and it smelled about a hundred times better. As if a seer, "And how did our fair Anders escape all of this without a scratch?"

The fact that the two mages had already spoken slipped Brand's mind completely. _I hope he didn't spill the truth about Alistair. Any of it. All I need is for her to march down to his cell and give him what for._ Despite her prickly demeanor, ostensibly gained by decades miserably served at Weisshaupt Fortress, Fiona had become a bit protective of her young commander. Brand shifted on the bed, suddenly reminded of the first time she'd been subjected to the mage's unique scrutiny, so markedly different from Wynne's grandmother act or Anders' endearingly casual approach.

"Do you remember the first time you saw me here?"

Fiona arched one delicate black eyebrow, "Why are you changing the subject?"

"Because I'm exhausted and my mind is grabbing thoughts at random and shoving them out of my mouth?" This earned a tired grin.

"Of course I remember the first time I had to heal you. It's not every day a woman _that_ pregnant gets knocked out in a duel."

"It could have been worse. At least I wasn't _in_ the duel."

"I'm sure Bryce is thankful that you restrained yourself from that particular hobby."

There was no way Brand could fight the wistful smile that spread across her face at the mention of her son. She was almost done in the infirmary, the apprentices were putting the finishing touches on her bandages, and then she could run _limp slowly_ upstairs..."How was he while I was gone?"

"He was...Bryce. I think Anders must have told him how birds feed their young; I caught him offering Pounce a handful of cheesy spit at breakfast and some pre-chewed strawberries later that day." This image, along with the mildly repulsed expression on Fiona's face, forced a chuckle out of Brand. The slight movement, in turn, made every inch of her hurt. _No matter, it's still hilarious_.

"I should go up and see him," Brand cast her eyes around the infirmary. "Do I...have any clothes down here?"

"I was in such a hurry to get things prepared, I didn't think to grab anything," her arms overflowing with leftover supplies, Fiona jerked her head towards the back of the infirmary, where the Vigil dead would await their pyres. "I can't say who it belonged to, or if they're still alive, but there _is_ a cloak over there. Would that suffice?"

The idea of sneaking through the Vigil in nothing but a cloak and bandages wasn't the most appealing, but it was better than sneaking through the Vigil in nothing. With the gentle touch of someone who regularly dealt with the broken, Fiona aided Brand off the bed and into the cloak. Brand's leg threatened to buckle under her weight; the muscle beneath the stitched wound felt incredibly tight. Standing was difficult enough, walking might be nearly impossible. _But just nearly, so I can handle it._

"Do you want me to help you upstairs?"

"No. It's doubtful that Varel has gone far, but I appreciate the offer. And thank you for taking care of Bryce, and for patching me up."

"Sure," Fiona wasn't the best with the social graces. "It better be the last time I see you in such horrendous shape. Now go see your boys and get some rest."

"My _boys_? I hope you're not including Anders in that...he's hardly mine."

"And yet you knew exactly who I meant. And how was he on your trip? Did he behave himself?"

"Be_have_ himself? Of course he did! Why, did he tell you that he had some nefarious plan to seduce me?"

"Like he'd talk to _me _about it if he did," the mage studied her commander closely, the faint lines next to her eyes deepening in amusement at Brand's sudden discomfort. "Did you behave _your_self?"

"Andraste's knickers, what are you getting at? Is this a discussion we should even be having?"

Fiona's face bloomed into a wide smile, "_You _are blushing!"

"That's impossible. You and I both know I've lost way too much blood to sustain that sort of activity," Brand paused in the doorway to scowl at Fiona, who was trying desperately to not make some lewd joke, probably about Anders having enough blood for the both of them. "I don't have to subject myself to this interrogation. I am going to bed."

She limped into the hall, the sound of Fiona's laughter echoing behind her. As she suspected, Varel was waiting, hands behind his back, face a mask of fatherly concern. She nodded and he was at her elbow immediately, allowing her to use him as a human crutch as they slowly ascended the staircase leading to the Warden's living quarters and Brand's own apartment.

As they approached her door, Varel cleared his throat. It was his way of indicating that the next words out of his mouth might not be exactly what Brand would want to hear.

"Command..._Brand_. The men are concerned about this prisoner you brought back. There are some unpleasant rumblings amongst the usual suspects that he might be a danger. From what I've heard in the past hour alone, you'd think he brought an army against you and not just held up a dagger."

Brand leaned away from her seneschal with a deep sigh. Varel was her most trusted advisor, she should have told him everything she knew right then. Instead, she shook her head, determined to hide Alistair's identity for as long as she could.

"Varel, I know it only makes your job more difficult but, please, trust me when I say that I am certain this man is no threat to anyone but himself. Anders and I were able to keep him in check all the way here, I'm more than confident that a keep full of Grey Wardens should be able to handle him if the need arises," Brand took hold of the doorknob, shifting her weight from her injured leg. "And, I forgot to mention it outside, but we need to investigate the area where I was attacked. It was just east of the road, as it enters the forest. Send Sigrun at daybreak and allow her as many men as she requires, I want any scrap of information that can be pulled off of those bastards' bodies and want everyone to come back _safely_. Now, if you don't mind, I am in desperate need of a bed. Thank you for all of your help this morning, I will seek you out this afternoon to go over business."

"It was the least I could do, my lady. I am only glad that you are in relatively good health. I was...not certain that would be the case before you saw Ser Fiona," Varel bowed slightly and left her alone, obedient as ever to even her most casual commands.

Brand slid into the foyer and, as usual, a sense of overwhelming loss seized her. Once a representation of the fragile normalcy she'd managed to establish for herself after the Blight, the suite, which included an unused guest room and Teagan's long-empty study _I can still smell him when I walk by_, now seemed outsized for a widow and her toddler son. She shook her head to clear the ghosts _don't want to end up like Eamon_ and stepped towards the bedrooms.

Bryce's room was open; the scent of rain wafting out to greet her even though Anders had orders to close the windows against the storm. Pulling the borrowed cloak tight, Brand leaned against the doorjamb and took in the scene laid out before her as lit by Fiona's oil lamp- Anders splayed in his favorite wingback chair next to Bryce's bed, his cat, Ser Pounce-a-lot, curled in his lap. Brand could just make out the tangle of auburn hair that was her son's sole resemblance to his father _did I even have any part in creating this child?_ and the pale curve of one plump cheek.

For a moment, she felt a strange surge of contentedness, followed by a chill. She'd been attacked by almost twenty men in one night and had the exiled Bastard King of Ferelden in a cell in her basement prison. The toll of the past few days must have made her daffier than she knew if she could find any peace at a time like this. Still, she lingered for a bit longer before lightly knocking. _It's the small things._

Anders was on his feet immediately, allowing Ser Pounce-a-lot to spill carelessly onto the bed to snuggle against Bryce. He stepped into the foyer, the door closing behind him.

"Is your pussy always so fickle?"

His lips curved into an intimate grin. He looked as exhausted as she felt, and was probably running on self-rejuvenation spells, but he could always spare the energy to appreciate a bawdy joke. "He and I both prefer the term 'easy'."

"I'll keep that in mind," Brand caught herself leaning towards him. He noticed as well, a hand reaching out to tug at the edge of her cloak, which she held shut from the inside.

"So, just how busted are you?"

"Very. But I'll live."

"Hmmm. Good to know," Anders pulled her close, taking care to arrange his arms so that they wouldn't press against anything too painful, his lips then brushing from her forehead down her nose until they found hers.

It was just a kiss, but it made her momentarily forget her pains and the turmoil of the past few days. Brand's hands abandoned their job keeping her cloak closed and went up to hold Anders' face. As she had the other day, she enjoyed the tactile difference between his perpetually burgeoning beard and the soft skin under her thumbs as she stroked them along his cheekbones _I never imagined how good it would feel just to have your skin bared against mine. _She shut out Alistair's voice, a long buried memory of the first night they'd spent together, his awkwardness smoothing to passion as he abandoned his nerves to desire. It was the same as the morning after they'd rescued him- sunken emotions resurfacing and confusing her with how close they seemed to what she found herself feeling for Anders.

Anders had always confused her, though. He was all surface and shallow charm, there but not there at once. The years he spent trying to escape the Tower had turned him into a man whose eyes were ever on the exits and it was a philosophy he seemed to apply to his numerous romantic entanglements.

But then, just below that, was a truth implied in the way he was always captured due to his own inability to see anyone or anything in distress and just walk on by. Every escape attempt he made included an element of "if I'd kept going, I'd have gotten away." Brand had dismissed the mage herself when she first discovered him standing in a pile of dead darkspawn and templars, promising that she'd tell anyone who asked that he'd died as well. He was back less than an hour later, knowingly giving up a chance to get away to help defend the keep. Her appreciation for the aid was deflected with bravado; he didn't want to be pinned down, even by reputation.

After his conscription, he'd managed to become an almost exemplary Warden and turned out to be a decent and thoughtful person beneath the guise of selfish lothario. Beyond the countless occasions when his presence was the only thing that stood between her and certain death, not least of which was the night that Bryce was born, he was always the one willing to help when things got complicated, filling both Zevran's role as her partner in crime and Alistair's long abandoned post as the man at her elbow, speaking out on behalf of those who needed their help the most.

"What are you thinking about?" his voice was warm in her ear.

"You. And how you confuse me," Brand leaned back a little so she could say this while looking in his eyes.

He responded by letting those eyes flicker the length of her face, that crooked little smile brightening his own again. "How's this for confusion: I am so tired I could cry, and I know that you are as fragile as glass right now, but Maker help me, I would like to do all sorts of terrible things to you."

Laughing, and trying to ignore the way his voice and the words he said made her vision go a bit blurry, she tilted her head, "Where did _that_ come from?"

"You ask like you don't know me! Just because I've managed to show some restraint doesn't mean I'm not categorically imagining a thousand ways to express the considerable..._affection_ that I have for you."

Brand shivered, "Is the way you just said "affection" included in those thousand?"

"A thousand and one, then," his tone held promise but he'd obviously chosen to exert some self-control. "As tempting as you are, I think I can hold off until I know we'll _both_ enjoy ourselves."

"But what if I said it was all right?" Brand heard herself, but it was as if it came from someone else entirely and, for the third time in the past few days, she was certain something was happening with her mental faculties. _Everything is falling apart, _you _are falling apart, and _this _is how you want to expend your precious energy?_

"I would still suggest we wait," Anders' responded with surprising firmness. "I'm not going to risk hurting you, Brand. _You _might be unwilling to acknowledge your limits, but I'm not."

The implications of his words struck a nerve, and Brand extracted herself from his arms, eyebrow raised. "Are you sure that's the real reason?"

"It's part of the real reason."

"And the rest?"

"The rest is that I'm..." the corners of his mouth drew down, and there was a nearly imperceptible flash of frustration in his hazel eyes."I'm nervous about..._this_. You don't all of a sudden get something you've wanted for years without there being a catch. And I can think of about ten just off the top of my head."

"You've wanted this...for _years_?" Brand couldn't hide her surprise. People had talked, of course, and Teagan had never been thrilled by how close they were _I'd just feel better if he didn't remind me...but I trust you_. Until the other night, however, none of his flirtations had ever seemed serious. It was just Anders being Anders. Then again, here he was now, very much Anders but looking away, color flooding his cheeks and his hands twisting his robes.

"Are you really so shocked to hear this?" Despite his still flushed face, he had full use of his sarcasm. "Wow, Anders is attracted to a brave and funny woman with _amazing _hands and the most gorgeous smile the Maker has ever bestowed upon a person. Who would have guessed _that_ could happen?"

It was the right answer. Brand went back to him, pulling his mouth down to hers and kissing him as hard as she dared. He responded with an equal amount of passion, his fingers sinking into her damp hair. He broke their embrace to nuzzle her throat, bared and white in the dim light of the foyer. She was certain he would be able to feel her rapidly increasing heartbeat as he lingered there before moving behind her, pulling the cloak open as he went and running his hand down her left arm to her bared hip, his fingertips electric against her skin.

"Is this another demonstration of your powers?"

"Mmmm, I suppose it is. But not the ones to which you're referring," he held her against him, and her back arched expectantly. Still, he made no moves beyond the careful petting, the pleasure of which was only heightened by her overall achiness, and the maddeningly gentle attention to her neck. Teagan had always been fond of such teasing, amazed by how his warrior would melt so easily with the right application of lips, tongue and breath and then Teagan's voice was in her head as if _he _were the one nibbling at her ear _if the darkspawn would have known of this weakness, Ferelden might be in ruins right now_.

Brand jerked at the sudden memory of her late husband and Anders immediately placed distance between the two of them, as if sensing what caused the break in their romantic reverie. She became painfully aware of just how correct his earlier concerns had been; between her injuries and the ghosts that haunted her in this place, such behavior was ill-advised.

_Just take care of business and go to bed, Brand. _Gathering her cloak firmly in place, Brand forced herself into some semblance of the woman in charge and turned to face Anders. He, too, had established a mask of careful neutrality.

"Are you ready for your orders?"

"I'm even more ready for...well, yes," he braced his shoulders in a way that was eerily reminiscent of Alistair and nodded.

"Go to the kitchen, get some assorted foodstuffs for our prisoner and take supplies to clean him up again. Leave his bandages off, though."

Anders pulled a repulsed face, "Why would you want me to do that? Trust me when I say it's _disgusting _under there."

"That's the point," Brand rubbed the back of her neck, her eyes closing against the stress of the past few days and the rapid emotional shifts of the past ten minutes. "I want to see exactly what I did to him."

"OK...if that's what you want," he shrugged. "Anything else?"

"Yes, dismiss Bluth and Barkley once you have him secure. I hate making you stay up even longer, but you're the only person I trust with him right now. I'll relieve you in a few hours at the most, I promise. Oh! I almost forgot, your dagger should be in the infirmary. He...gave it back after I sent you inside."

"Do you think I'll need it?"

"I hope not, but..." Brand was far too tired to think herself in that dark direction. "It doesn't hurt to keep it on you, at any rate. Now, I'm getting some sleep, and I'll see you in a few hours so _you _can get some sleep."

Anders left, and Brand secured the door behind him. Without anyone to immediately distract her, her mind began to simultaneously unspool and click into action; it was like her brain was trying to inhale and exhale at the same time. _Don't start this,_ _you're so close to getting a respite. Although, you might want to change out of this dead man's cloak first._

It only took Brand a few _agonizing_ minutes to put on clean undergarments, plain velvet-lined trousers and a white linen blouse. She knew her day would begin at a sprint, so it seemed efficient to just sleep in her clothes. As an afterthought, she found her jewelry box in its place at the back of her armoire, less hidden than it was forgotten. Inside was an amulet she'd left behind during her trip to Amaranthine, afraid it might get lost or damaged while they adventured. Far from a sentimental piece, she liked to keep it with her in situations where her resolve might fail or her propensity for rashness might get the better of her. Sliding the silver chain over her head, she welcomed the feel of cool metal against her chest as it gave her something to focus on that wasn't pain.

Feeling somewhat together, Brand walked back to her son's room and approached his bed on silent feet.

Bryce was a remarkably sound sleeper, and did not stir as she ran her fingers over his silken auburn hair, and then across his round little cheek. His own fingers were buried in Ser Pounce's thick fur; the cat was well used to being treated like a breathing toy. Taking pains to not jostle the cat or the babe, Brand laid down behind him, resting one hand protectively on his head. His scent was the outdoors- dirt, grass and sunshine- and she was overwhelmed by a surge of affection for her child.

The depths of her exhaustion consumed her quickly, and she was very nearly asleep when his small voice arrived to her from the darkness.

"Brand?" he spoke in a whisper, no doubt to keep from rousing Ser Pounce.

"I'm right here, Bryce," she absentmindedly kissed the top of head.

"Sig..Sigrun says that Anders is a frog," this accusation obviously concerned him. "Anders isn't a frog, is he?"

"No, dear. Anders isn't a frog."

"Can he _turn_ into a frog?" It was a notion that held more promise.

"Why don't you ask him next time you see him?"

"OK....can _you_ turn into a frog?"

"Not at all."

"Oh. That's fine, I guess."

"Let's go to sleep, sweetie."

_Sigh._ "OK. Love you, momma."

"I love you too, Bryce."


	11. Reflection

The sunlight streaming across Brand's face was far stronger than it should have been _apparently the day has started without me_. As her eyes fluttered open she became aware that she was alone in Bryce's bed, although he had taken the time to lay one of his diminutive blankets across her shoulders, the silk trim cool against her cheek. With a groan, she struggled to a sitting position, realizing as she did so the extraordinary amount of damage she'd taken over the past few days. Even blinking was uncomfortable.

Bryce crouched near the hearth of his cold fireplace, enclosing Ser Pounce in a small fort comprised of wooden blocks bequeathed to him by his cousin, Connor. Teagan had told her once that they'd been in the Guerrin family for generations, and they looked appropriately ancient. At some point in their illustrious history, there'd been elaborate scenes and letters painted on every side of each block, but the artwork had faded years ago and now they were better suited to the purpose of annoying felines than they were as heirlooms.

"Good morning," Bryce didn't even look up from his project, more focused on managing Pounce's orange tail as it swished dramatically and took out a wall in the process. Rather than be annoyed at the devastation of his work, the little boy let loose a delighted giggle and began to rebuild.

"How long have you been awake?" The moment Brand asked, she felt foolish. Bryce glanced at her with the most beautiful expression on his face, one that clearly said "Why do you ask me these questions? I'm a child."

"Fiona said I could eat breakfast later," Pounce playfully tilted to the side and the entire fort around him became nothing more than a pile of wooden rubble. This destruction was final; the block in Bryce's hand dropped in a clear gesture of resignation and he climbed onto the bed next to his mother, leaning his head against her side. "You smell funny."

"I had to visit the infirmary last night," Brand didn't go into depth. "You know, I think we should get breakfast right now. I need to speak with Oghren, and I'm running late because _you_ let me sleep too long."

"Fiona _said_ to be quiet," Bryce's tone was absolutely exasperated. Laughing, Brand gave her son a tiny push towards the edge of his bed. He'd already been changed into a linen tunic, for which Brand was infinitely grateful. She was far too stiff to wrangle him herself.

"Let's get on our shoes and head downstairs."

Judging by the high level of activity in the keep, it was well into the middle of the morning. Once the pair made it out of their quarters and to the dining room, they were all but surrounded by the Vigil staff and several Wardens. Brand got the feeling, from the way the room hushed when she walked in, her late night arrival and the subsequent lockdown had been a hot topic of conversation.

"Commander," the rough voice came from behind her and Brand didn't have to turn around to know who it belonged to. Oghren was the oldest of her associates at the Vigil, and the only of her companions to join the Wardens after the Blight. The fact that he called her commander was amusing; she'd promoted him to co-commander after Teagan's death, knowing that her governing responsibilities would take away from her ability to recruit and train Wardens. "I've been looking for you, Commander."

"Not that hard, apparently. I've been in Bryce's room all morning."

Oghren rolled his eyes, "Like I'd break into your private quarters and risk seeing something I shouldn't."

"Like what? What _exactly_ do you think I have going on up there?" Brand shook her head. "You know, please don't answer that. I absolutely do not need to know. We _do_ need to talk, though. Do you have any idea where Fiona or Laure might be?"

"No, not Laure!" Bryce had no fondness for his mother's attendant. Brand didn't love the tiny, high strung woman herself, but her son was especially resistant. His voice dropped to a loud whisper, "She gives me a headache."

This earned a booming laugh from Oghren, as it was a sentiment that the child had probably picked up from him, "Luckily, boy, she's with Varel in the throne room. Fiona is..."

"Right behind you," the mage appeared next to Brand, a basket of bread and fruit balanced in one hand, a pitcher of water in the other. "Apparently we'll be eating down here?" She set the food on a nearby table and held a chair out for Bryce.

"Go ahead, love," Brand nudged him towards Fiona. "I have to talk to Oghren and then take care of some other business. When I'm done, I might take you to the stables. I bought a new horse the other day, and I think you'll like him."

As he hero-worshipped Fiona almost as much as he did Anders, Bryce really didn't need to be bribed. He parted easily from his mother with a brief squeeze of her hand and no backwards glance as he clambered into his seat, already chattering about the new horse. "...I think his name is..._Fergus_."

With that settled, Brand was able to turn her full attention to Oghren.

"We can walk and talk, can't we?" Brand's leg was tremendously sore, but she hoped that the movement might help loosen it up.

"Aye, Commander," Oghren scratched his chin, the only part of his face besides his nose and eyes that wasn't buried beneath a tangle of red hair. Even his jowls were well-insulated. "So word is that the Vigil is closed to the public?"

"Yes. Anders and I were successful in Amaranthine, but I'm afraid that we might have attracted some unwanted attention," Brand debated whether or not to share her next theory, but decided Oghren deserved to know. "I'm starting to think that might have been the point."

"You saying the elf led you into a sodding trap?" Oghren's bushy eyebrows shifted up. He and Zevran had been close, he no doubt saw such betrayal as unlikely.

"I hope not, but...I was attacked a few miles away from here, and I have no idea who besides Anders and Varel knew I would be there. I feel like something had to have been orchestrated, it was too organized," she stopped walking, her leg threatening to quit her body altogether if she didn't take a break.

"So, this man you brought with you..." there was so much implied in the way Oghren trailed off that Brand had no idea where to begin.

"I'm on my way to talk to him."

"By yourself?"

"No, I'll grab Nathaniel, and Anders is down there with him now. As far as we know, he's not done anything wrong. I don't want to be too aggressive in our approach or he might never talk," Brand hoped that she sounded more sincere to Oghren than she did to herself. She had every intention of speaking with Alistair one-on-one, and it had nothing to do with how she would come across to _him_. The last thing she needed was any of her men bearing witness to what could easily be an epic emotional confrontation. _Or it could be nothing; we've been nothing to one another for over five years. Why should that change now? _"I'll give you a full report when I'm done, and then we can decide what to do next. For now, just make sure everyone does what they're supposed to be doing."

"Aye, Commander. I just hope that this whole thing doesn't bite us in the arse," Oghren waved his hand, as if clearing the notion from the air, and then turned back towards the keep. Brand watched him walk away, guilt gnawing at her. When she'd started preparing for the interference in Amaranthine, the dwarf had expressed his concerns with the plan then. It was a credit to his loyalty that he refrained from pointing this out now that the situation was proving more perilous than she'd anticipated.

_Or maybe it's as perilous as you _hoped_ it would be._

Brand found Nathaniel training in the yard, beating the stuffing out of a straw practice dummy. Within the past few months he decided that being a beast with a bow wasn't enough, and was now working towards becoming just as deadly with blades. Hanging back, she watched him for a few minutes and took notes on his technique. It did not surprise her that his footwork was impeccable; his style of archery depended almost as much on stance as it did strength and accuracy. She was, however, blown away by the furious precision of his strikes.

"Maker help anyone who challenges _you_ to a friendly duel these days."

The furious stabbing continued for a moment longer, indicating his unwillingness to respond to her. There'd been a time when Brand had counted Nathaniel as one of her closest friends, something she'd never thought could be said about the son of the man who murdered her family. Teagan's death, however, had caused a seemingly irreparable rift between the two of them. Nowadays she rarely spoke to him and, when she did ask for his help, it was to make a point. As she needed to make about a thousand points today, he was going to help her with Alistair. _Sort of._

"Do you require my assistance?" His tone was as cool as the shaded yard, yet beads of sweat clung to his pale forehead and his dark hair was damp with perspiration.

"I would like for you to accompany me down to the holding cell."

"When?"

"Right now. You have a bit before you're to relieve Remiah, I promise I won't keep you long," Brand struggled to maintain an even tone. Nathaniel finished his exercise with a quick flurry of strikes and sheathed his daggers.

"Then by all means, lead the way, _Commander_."

Although far from alert, Anders was somehow still conscious when Brand and Nathaniel arrived to relieve him of his watch guard duties. Judging by the small mound of singed straw on the desk in front of him, it was clear he'd turned to simple magical exercises to occupy himself. Nathaniel flicked the pile, frowning as it fell to ash and smeared the wood below.

"Were you trying to set the entire keep on fire, Anders?"

"That is _exactly_ what I was trying to do! That's why I came to the most remote part of the fort and used the most minute amount of flame-power at my disposal," Anders sighed and sank back in his chair. "I was never very good at arson, to be honest. Fire is so _unpredictable_, and I rather like my eyebrows to remain non-singed."

"What a long and painful route to the word 'No'," Nathaniel scowled at the mage. The two men were now almost as adversarial as Alistair and Morrigan had been...Brand's eyes flicked past Anders, towards the cell. Their prisoner was curled up on a covered straw pallet, his back to the door.

"Oh, believe me when I say it could have been both longer and far more painful. Unfortunately, I'm..."

Anders retort was interrupted by the door to the prison flying open. The three Wardens whirled around to confront Laure, Brand's attendant.

"My lady!" Despite being human, Laure was more petite than some elves Brand had known and, with her close-cropped hair, wide russet eyes and irritatingly high voice, she usually seemed more like a child than an adult responsible for the affairs of an arlessa. She'd been hired as a last resort to satisfy the meddling of Vigil staff who seemed intensely put out that the lady of the manor had no personal servants. Brand used her as minimally as possible, so Laure spent most of her time drifting from room to room looking for ways to force herself into the middle of any situation that would have her.

"Laure, what in Andraste's name are you doing down here?"

"My lady, a scout from Amaranthine brought a message to the gate, and I was by the gate when he brought it and, since he ain't allowed in...I brought it to you," she shoved a scroll into Brand's hand, even though it was hardly outstretched, remaining only few feet away and bouncing excitedly in the hopes that her mistress would do her the honor of sharing its contents.

"Thank you Laure, you may be excused."

"But...what if you need to respond to the message? The scout is still at the gate, so _I_ could take him your message!" Her tiny hands clasped hopefully in front of her. _Maker, Bryce was right about her potential to cause headaches. _

"If I have any messages for the scout, I will send them via Anders or Nathaniel. I do appreciate your willingness to help, however." This firm dismissal set Laure to a sag, and she shuffled out of the prison as if Brand had personally kicked her. "Nathaniel, lock the door behind her. I don't need anyone else busting in on us like that."

It was a task done begrudgingly; Brand ignored his polite glare to read the message.

Bearing the seal of the City of Amaranthine, the scroll was written in hurried script and signed by Constable Aidan. Brand went over it three times before the words began to make sense...

_Oh, Eamon. What did you do?_

Commander Cousland,

Your brother-in-law has been found dead in his rooms at Marigold's.  
It seems a murder; two men were also found dead at the lower docks.  
I will send a more detailed report as soon as I can.  
Please know that you have my regrets for your loss.

Sincerely,  
Aidan, High Constable of Amaranthine

_There is much to be done, that is true. But I should first be thankful to those who have done so much._

"Anders, set this on fire. Now."

Anders lightly touched one corner of the letter, the parchment igniting at his fingertips. As the paper blackened in her hand, the words slowly consumed by magical flame, Brand fought to control her emotions. She and Eamon had their issues, but he was a good man _who you seemed determined to destroy from the inside out,_ and no good man deserved to be killed in a boarding house _not even if he was considering treason via rebellion_.

"No one speak of this until I can talk to Varel. Anders, tell the scout that I look forward to further information. Tell the guard to offer him some food for his return trip and then _you_ need to go to bed," she augmented his orders with a small shove, hoping that a jocular gesture would slow her heartbeat a bit, or steady her nerves. Instead, she almost knocked the fatigued mage over.

"Of course," his expression was pure bafflement, and her eyes darted away from him. She could explain later.

After Anders' departure, Brand rifled through the desk, pulling drawers in search of parchment and a writing utensil. Nathaniel stood by, arms crossed defiantly over his chest, his annoyance with the whole situation increasing until it was a near palpable thing that Brand could no longer ignore.

"Say what you will."

"I would just like to know what is going on here, Commander."

"And I would like to tell you. Unfortunately, I'm a bit fuzzy on the details myself."

"What was in that note? You do know _that_ much, don't you?" Nathaniel reminded Brand of his father when he became belligerent. _It wasn't always that way, you cared about each other once._

"You'll find out with the rest of the Wardens. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like for you to leave," Brand turned to face him, drawing herself to her full height. It put them nose to nose. She could see fury warming his cool blue eyes; he was yearning to lash out at her _you should have died on that road instead of Teagan, it was your recklessness that got him killed _but she was acting as his Commander and to say the words that were setting his tongue on fire would be a violation of his personal code of ethics. _Too bad__._ _Why not let Alistair know ahead of time that I've ruined more than just _his_ life?_

Nathaniel, it seemed, was willing to waive his ethics that morning.

"Let me ask you something, Commander. What happens on that night that you don't return? What becomes of your arling, of your order? What are we supposed to tell Bryce?"

"I'm flattered, Warden, that you think I'm so important that all this would fall apart without me. I also imagine that our guest is flattered, since you seem to be implying that the moment you're not here to sneer him to death, he'll be out of that cell and around my neck in no time at all," Brand kept her tone carefully conciliatory. "As for Bryce, just tell him that the next time he goes to Amaranthine, he can swim in the frog ponds. But _only_ if it's warm enough and, of course, he has to keep his smallclothes on. If he resists, point out that those rules apply to Anders as well. _That_ should appease him."

"You know, _Cousland_, one of these days your rash behavior and smart mouth are going to cause you to lose someone that you actually care about. I pray to the Maker that I am not a party to that," his voice was so dangerously low that Brand had to lean towards him in order to clearly hear. The reduced space between them actually worked in her favor.

"You know, _Howe_," she hissed his name and it was almost a living thing on its own. "I'll keep that in mind the next time I decide to do something _rash_, like graciously spare the son of the man who killed my family or an elf responsible for the deaths of tens of innocent merchants. No one benefits from _that_ sort of _rash_ decision making, do they?" She pulled back and waved her hand in the most imperious way she knew, channeling Anora for one brief, horrible, moment. "You, ser, are _dismissed_."

Nathaniel wore the expression of a man who'd just been slapped _as if Teagan wasn't as important to me as Velanna was to him, as if he has any right to imply that I never cared for my husband_, but he stalked out of the prison without another word. No doubt she'd be nursing burnt ears once he got off duty and found Garavel. The two of them could spew as much bile as they wanted; she didn't care.

_Stop lying to yourself. _

Brand secured the door behind Nathaniel only to find that she couldn't bring herself to turn around. Instead, her head fell forward against the rough wooden surface in front of her, the impact adding another mild ache that sunk like a stone amongst the ocean of pains that plagued her. For several moments, _minutes? hours? days?_ all she could do was breath.

_Inhale...one...two...three...four...five._ She saw Eamon at Teagan's pyre, Bryce in his arms as he lifted his nephew to better see. Bryce's hair was gleaming copper in the rosy sunset over Lake Calenhad, fluttering in the wind as he touched his father's face, his chubby fingers briefly curling against Teagan's beard for the last time.

_Exhale...one...two...three...four...five._ Suddenly it was Connor, and this was after they'd burned the bodies of the Redcliffe dead. He was newly motherless, his father fading by the minute. Brand had taken his hand as they returned to the castle, knowing that it was her fault that Isolde was gone, but hopeful she could at least save Eamon, that _something_ could be salvaged from this wreckage. She could feel the desperate intensity of his grasp. Brand was little more than a stranger to him and in this moment he was silently begging_ don't you leave me, too_.

_Inhale...one...two...three...four...five. _Eamon was waiting for her after the Landsmeet, his blue eyes grave, but not angry. Never, ever angry. _You only did what you thought you had to, whatever Alistair does after this is on him_.

_Exhale...one...two. three...four...five... _Teagan approached her after she'd sent Loghain to Morrigan _if it means the Archdemon can be slain, even if we die..._ She shivered in the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle, staring at the dusky sky and trying to ignore the stench of darkspawn, the crawl of them in her blood. He didn't see the troubled woman who'd almost made one horrible decision too many, he just saw a beautiful, lonely hero. She encouraged and embraced that lie; she encouraged and embraced him.

_Inhale...one...two...three...four...five. _The relief on Eamon's face when she returned from her brief stay in Drakon had been touching; the man was genuinely concerned for her well-being and not because she was his political muscle. _I think Maric would have been glad to see his son so happy, I know that I am._ And she ran to Anora, terrified of the spark of hope she felt to hear it spoken, legitimized. If Alistair was betrothed to Anora, then no one would question why he couldn't propose to _her_, and Brand could go on pretending she was perfectly fine with things the way they were.

_Exhale...one...two...three...four...five. _Charon held the bandits off their horses for as long as he could; the last time she saw him his teeth were bared, his graying hackles raised, but there were so many of them and a skilled archer had taken Teagan down. She hadn't realized this, she thought her husband had went the other direction, she thought he was fighting. It wasn't until she ran to her mabari _I'm coming Charon, I think we've won,_ worried that something had happened to her beloved companion, that she saw both of their lifeless bodies amongst those of their attackers. Teagan had a single arrow through his heart and Charon had died in defense of his corpse.

Her next breath was mangled, as if her lungs refused to have any part in drawing it. She grasped at her chest, ensnaring the amulet she had the presence of mind to wear, the amulet given to her two years ago in the torch-lit gloom of the Deep Roads.

_I would have died, had that Orlesian peasant not risked his own foolish life to pull me out of the river. I offered him a reward, but he refused and, instead, gave me this._

_Why are you telling me this, Loghain? _

_I want you to have it. It came to represent the fact that our enemies have faces, too. They can be compassionate...show mercy. They can even be victims of the same evil that you once fought, the evil that you are fighting. The Orlesian peasant did not teach me all of that, but _you_ never gave me any jewelry._

_I also never showed you compassion._

_I never expected you to. It was enough that you extended _some_ mercy, and I was finally able to see what others saw in you, to understand what they had once seen in me._

_That's almost poetical. Did you pick up some culture while you were in Orlais?_

_I cannot say whether I find it more annoying or more impressive that you keep your sharp tongue, even at a time like this. Tell Anora that I love her, Commander. I'm glad that she's not here for this; the smell would make her miserable._

He pressed the amulet into her hand; it was still warm from where he'd been clutching it in a nervous fist, waiting for the right time to approach her. Brand refused to look at it, or thank him, and she didn't say good-bye before she left his Calling ceremony. The last she saw of him, he'd been slowly sheathing his sword for his final battle, preparing to plunge into the abyss. It was time for him to die and she wanted nothing to do with it.

Out of spite, she kept the necklace in her pack until she arrived back in Amaranthine. Anders found it a few weeks later while searching for some component. When he presented it to her, she thought it was a gift from him until she recognized it with dawning guilt. The story about the peasant was a cover; Loghain must have ordered it made for her- a silver locket engraved with the Cousland family heraldry _no matter how many men you marry in your life, you will always be your father's daughter _on one side and the Grey Warden insignia on the other. It opened to a pair of smoothly polished mirrors. She remembered holding those small, shining circles to her face, catching a glimpse of the smirk that was her default when she thought of the man who'd destroyed so much of her life.

_And yet..._Loghain was the only one she'd ever told- Loghain was the only person in the world who knew the real reason she spared him at the Landsmeet.

_I was afraid. I thought "This could be me in twenty years. I could be this man, haunted by the demons of my youth and blind to the demons of the present. I could have the status of a hero, power, and unchecked access to armies." You were an honest to goodness champion once, and look at what you became. I could not let that happen to me, and I thought that executing you would be taking that first step towards becoming a monster._

_That's a nice image that you have of me, although I can admit it isn't entirely underserved. Next time you start to think you're about to turn into a monster, just look at yourself and then evaluate your situation and your options. If I would have done that, instead of listening to someone like Howe, I might not have...things might have turned out differently for both you and I. _

_A bit of a cliché, don't you think?_

_The next time I give you advice on how to avoid such a terrible fate as becoming like me, I'll strive to be more original._

Breaking with memory, Brand held the opened locket to her eyes. They weren't the eyes of a killer, a fiend, or a madwoman. They were just her eyes- guilt-filled but recognizably human. She clasped the amulet shut, the click echoing throughout the narrow, stone-lined room, back to the cell that held a man who was a testament to what she had lost due to _how did Nathaniel put it?_ her rash behavior.

"Brand?"

Her heart went into her throat at the sound of his voice and she felt something else besides regret, something that she had not allowed for almost six years; it was the faintest ache of longing.

This was Alistair coming back to her.

_Some things can't be undone or forgiven._

And it was bound to hurt.


	12. What Got Left Behind

_Tomorrow, I will be king. _

As his chamber door shut behind him with a satisfyingly solid thunk, Alistair leaned back, his head slamming against the hard wood with enough force to make his vision swim. He had hoped it would drive down the creeping dread that was steadily rising in him, but it only hurt.

He was recently released from dinner with Eamon and Anora. His former guardian and his betrothed. _Betrothed_...what did that even mean? One of the small mercies of being a bastard was no one expected him to play by the complicated rules of royal matchmaking. Well, he guessed it wasn't _too_ complicated for those being matched, at least. All he had done to end up engaged to Anora was nod dumbly as Brand, her eyes hard with resolution, explained that it would be a Good Idea, a Proof of Their Ability to Compromise. Apparently she thought treason could be shrugged off if the Landsmeet thought they were willing to play nice.

With a weary sigh he pulled away from the door and shuffled to the four-poster bed that balanced the large fireplace in his otherwise cramped room. He was at a loss as what to do- he had already bathed and there was nothing to read here except a series of massive tomes with titles like "Theory on Economic Subtext in the Chant of Light." _No, thank you._

Instead he dropped to his bed and pulled off his boots, his thoughts turning, inevitably, to the conversation he had just ended with Eamon. Politics was the main topic of discussion, Eamon speculating on how the nobles might respond at the Landsmeet while Anora appraised Alistair with frosty detachment.

Eamon left them alone for a few minutes and it had been...awkward. Anora was unmistakably beautiful, her porcelain pale face even warmed a bit as soon as the Arl stepped out of the room. A year ago, Alistair would had been reduced to stammering as she gazed at him through sooty lashes and folded her hands demurely across her stomach. Now he marveled at how effortlessly she moved between her roles depending on to whom she was speaking and what she hoped to gain. The personas flickered like lamplight and, if he looked closely enough, he could see the shadow of one behind the facade of another. A year ago, Alistair might have melted as her mouth twitched in a coy smile with a flash of dimple and a glint of promise in depthless sapphire eyes. But he wasn't that Chantry boy any longer, so all he saw was snakeskin under the cool perfection.

In his room, boots off and purposelessness confronting him again, Alistair's breath caught and he buried his face in his hands, suddenly in the grip of an overwhelming panic, his heart seizing as he thought of touching that blue-eyed queen, of swearing his life to her and accepting her oath to him. Just like his brother had done before him. _This is all so unsettling._ Anora was power-hungry, imperious, ruthless. She was _nothing _like any woman he'd ever dreamt of marrying when he allowed himself the heartbreak of such fancies. But there was no doubt she made a good ruler, just as there was little doubt that the Landsmeet would be placated by their union and Ferelden could be saved just in time to defeat the Blight. It was the right thing to do; he _knew_ that. And yet Alistair felt like he was drowning.

Had Maric felt this way when he was betrothed? He'd always wondered why his father had been unfaithful. What could a king have seen in a maid? He'd heard stories about Queen Rowan, about her strength, her bravery, and her warmth. Thatsounded more like the sort of woman Alistair would want to marry, a woman more like Brand.

Just thinking her name now was like stabbing himself in the stomach. When Anora had excused herself, her elven attendant following closely like a particularly disdained shadow, Alistair thought of Brand sitting in the poisonous Alienage mud, playing a one-sided game of dress-up with an orphaned elven girl. He could picture her tearful smile as the child beamed out from under her new tiara- too large and sitting crooked on her tangled, golden head- and the way she had collected the child's belongings and escorted her to an undistinguished tenement door with the heartfelt promise of a swift return.

The last he had seen of her she was retreating to her quarters to "die a happy death in a hot bath". He imagined she had fallen asleep there, as was her wont, and was tempted to sneak into her room and steal her, wet and naked, back to his hearth where he could lay her down, bury his fears in her and take on hers as well.

Instead, he resumed his musings on his upcoming engagement. He still wasn't completely certain why he had agreed to it, and he was totally uncertain why Brand had been so keen to have it done. Upon her return Eamon's, after having been betrayed to Loghain's men by Anora and then imprisoned at Fort Drakon, the rage in her green eyes had been epic. Alistair honestly thought Brand might kill her queen. Not that he hadn't entertained the notion of regicide when Anora made a remark on his inability to function without his Warden around to tell him how. It took all of his self-control to not up and dump her down a cistern himself. Had Brand not stomped into Eamon's study when she did, her daring rescue may have been all for naught.

_She _hates _Anora, how can she possibly imagine me being happy with her? What is she thinking?_

There had been no hesitation on Brand's part when she proposed he marry Anora and he was reminded of her behavior when they first left the Kocari Wilds after Ostagar, her expression carefully neutral and her demeanor purposefully detached. Since their arrival in Denerim they had been in a constant crush of battles and political machinations; it was like a blur framed between the few moments they had stolen to be together, their quick assignations the only times he felt he was with the woman he loved. As soon as she left his embrace, she separated herself in more than physical ways. And after tomorrow...after tomorrow it would always be that way between them. Distance would become the unendurable rule.

It was that thought that broke him, the bright bite of tears turning full-fledged and the slow simmer of resentment nurtured since Eamon first announced he would be put forward as heir boiled over. The outburst was brief and would have been silent had there not been a conveniently placed ceramic vase on his night stand. He found himself standing over the shattered vessel where it fell after its impact with the stone wall. Fragments dug into his bare feet, but he didn't care. He was too busy trying to regain his composure, even as tears slid down his cheeks.

Brand didn't bother knocking. He would have been disappointed if she had. He merely turned around and she was there, her hair still damp from her bath and her form concealed by a hastily draped black cloak.

"Alistair, what's wrong?" She was the picture of concern as she reached up to take his face between her hands, wiping his cheeks dry first. "I...why are you crying? Are you hurt?"

There was a desperation to her voice that made it that much harder for him to put into words why he was so upset. He couldn't speak; instead he pulled away the cloak to reveal the green silk shift beneath it, a thin layer of fabric that did little to obscure anything. He ran his fingers along the plunging neckline to her breasts, then to her hips where he gathered the fabric up with slow, spidery moments while lowering his mouth to hers. She let go of his face to wrap her arms around his neck, her lips parting and her tongue darting like fire to meet his.

Suddenly inspired, he grabbed her from beneath her bottom, lifting her from the floor in one easy movement.

"What are you doing with me?"

He walked over to the bed, depositing her on her back. Her gown sat high on her legs, the neckline dipping dangerously low, and all he wanted was to see and touch and kiss every last inch of her, to burn her into his memory so she would always be there, so he would never be able to forget how she made him feel.

He pulled off his shirt, his hands trembling a bit with anticipation and he felt Brand tugging at the laces on his pants. Flicking her away, he took over for himself. Brand retaliated by sliding one silken strap down until her breast was exposed. Making deliberate eye-contact, she licked two fingertips, each one receiving no small amount of erotic attention, before she began to tease herself, the suggestion clear in the way she shifted her hips.

Alistair watched, transfixed by the show until he realized that he could do more than leer. Yanking his pants and smallclothes off in one simultaneous tug, he climbed on top of her, setting out to perform his earlier desire. His fingers explored, probing intimate places and lingering when they found a spot that yielded a particularly delighted response, while his mouth kissed, teased and nipped at her breasts, along her neck and up to her lips. By the time he made his way there, she belonged completely to him; her eyes dark with desire, her taste, her scent, the very texture of her skin consuming his thoughts as he parted her knees and entered her, holding himself as deeply as he could.

Without warning, her legs went around his waist, pinning him close. He pulled his head back, and was greeted by the most devilish smile he'd ever seen.

"Now what are _you _doing with _me_?"

Brand bit his chin, the grin still in place.

"I'm keeping you."

"_Keeping_ me?" She responded this time by slowly twisting her hips and tightening..._things_ and his elbows almost buckled under the wave of ecstasy that went through him. "Maker, I think you mean_ ruining _me."

She allowed her thighs to relinquish their grip on his waist, although her hands replaced them, pushing him away and then tugging him back into her, again and again, until they'd established a frantic yet familiar rhythm, one that could hold back the morning for a few hours longer, one that could make them forget the horrible day that yawned before them.

* * *

His sleep that night was deep and dreamless. The assumption was he'd be plagued by nightmares about giant, sentient crowns that tried to devour him whole, or Anora presenting him with baby hurlock after baby hurlock _all blond, of course_ while the kingdom burned at the lack of a Theirin heir.

Instead, nothing.

Brand was still at his side when he awoke, her hair a dark cloud around her face and shoulders, her lashes inky against flushed cheeks. Alistair pushed back an errant lock that had fallen across her nose, and decided to enjoy this last peaceful moment rather than force it into something that would inevitably break his heart. She often teased him about this, what she termed _sleepstalking,_ when he told her how lovely she was during these unguarded moments.

_Everyone is beautiful when they sleep because that's when they're at their most honest. The absence of guile can mask things like wonky eyes and crooked noses. Well, rather, eyelids can mask wonky eyes and a deliberate angle can hide a crooked nose..._

From the sounds in the hall, the household was beginning to breath. He could hear the calls of housemaids as they made their rounds of vacant rooms, looking for chamberpots that needed to be emptied and sheets that needed changing. Soon there would be a polite rap at his door indicating his time was up; they would have to scramble like criminals to avoid detection and he would have to hand his beloved back to the world. For good this time.

Instead of giving himself over to the sorrow threatening a moment he preferred be no more than wistful, he ran his hands along Brand's bare side, his fingers light until they found the perfect spot to dig in and...

"Maker! Alistair, what are you doing?" Brand bolted upright, the sheets clutched to her chest and her eyes wide with the delirious hyperawareness of the recently unconscious. "Did you just..._tickle_ me awake?"

"Yes, even though I know you are going to kill me now," he pulled his pillow out from under his head, and held it protectively in front of his stomach. Brand possessed quick reflexes and, within seconds, was on top of him, returning his ill-advised prank. Between gasps of laughter, "It was worth it!"

"Oh, I'm not done..."

Alistair interrupted, sitting unexpectedly and flipping her on her back, his fingers once again finding the rib he knew would get him the most boisterous response, delighting in the way her face brightened at his teasing touch and her own laughter filled his small bedchamber. _I want to remember this, too. Maybe more than any of that other stuff. _

A sharp knock signaled the end of their morning revelry; Brand couldn't stop giggling, and Alistair laid his mouth against hers to silence it. She tasted slightly sour in the morning and he filed that away, along with the way her hands felt in his hair. The knock sounded again and he withdrew from her with unimaginable reluctance. Brand fled the bed, frantically grabbing her cloak and gown, and hid on the far side of the armoire.

"Come in," Alistair arranged the blankets to hide the bulk of him and was not surprised when Arl Eamon was the one calling. The older man seemed content to hang in the doorway, his posture stiff under the weight of ceremonial armor worn with no small amount of discomfort. Alistair's stomach tightened; seeing Eamon in full-on battle gear drove home a reality he'd been content to ignore all these long days since they'd called the Landsmeet. This could get ugly. This could get some-of-us-might-not-be-walking-out-of-that-chamber ugly.

"I'm heading to the palace now, with Queen Anora," Eamon's worn face was impossibly grave. "You and Brandelyn should arrive in about two hours. Would you like a guard to escort you?"

Alistair stared at his hands for a few moments, suddenly breathless with how real everything had just become. _Knock, knock. Your life is over. _

"No thank you, my lord. I imagine that Brand and I will be fine on our own."

Eamon's lips twitched at this and he nodded, "I will see you soon enough. Maker protect you until then. I hope the next time we speak that this madness will be settled and the right person will be on Ferelden's throne."

As soon as Eamon had gone, Brand popped out of her hiding spot, now cloaked and decent. _Damn._

"Does he always refer to me as Brandelyn when he talks about me?" Alistair regarded her incredulously. _That_ was what she picked up on?

"Sometimes...is that _really_ what you took from that? What he _calls_ you? What about the general tone of doom and gloom?"

"Yes, doom and gloom. So utterly different from all the other doom and gloom we've been mired in since Ostagar. Since...since before, for some of us," Brand's voice faltered and her eyes grew dark with grief. _Remember this. Remember all the things that brought her to you and made her into the woman you love. _Regaining her composure, she smirked."I should probably go slip into something a little less...insubstantial. I'll meet you by the front gate in an hour?"

Alistair signaled his agreement, watching as she slipped out of his room. He then busied himself with preparations rather than dwell on the symbolism of the moment.

* * *

An hour later, they found themselves at the gate that stood between Eamon's estate and the Denerim Market District. Brand arrived first, of course, and was waiting alone. She'd went with her plainest armor, the dragonskin splintmail crafted by Wade after they'd slain the high dragon on the mountaintop, and she carried Duncan's sword and dagger. Alistair's lips twitched in a smile with the appropriateness of her arms. He also wore plain splint, but his weapons were far more ostentatious: his father's dragonbone blade and the starmetal sword forged for Brand by Mikhail Dryden at Soldier's Peak.

"Aren't we the cutest matchy couple," Brand looked him over and then glanced down at her own mail with a bemused smile. "I should just order a few more sets for Oghren and Sten and we can take this freakshow on the road."

"Speaking of others," they began to march in step. "Why are we going alone? I thought for certain you'd want to stroll in there with Shale, let the nobles gawk at the best of your...collection."

She bumped against him deliberately, catching and squeezing his hand. "Aw, but _you're_ the best of my collection. Bastard Prince Ex-Templar Grey Warden? Everyone else is summed up in one or two words, but you're a mouthful."

Alistair's cheeks went pink at the slightly lascivious emphasis she put on that last word. "You didn't answer my question."

"We're doing this alone because I don't want to risk any of our companions to this political nonsense. If we fail, I can at least die knowing they might be able to carry on against the Blight."

His brow shot up, "I'd like to see them try, with no Grey Wardens to lead them."

"Well, there _is _Riordan. And I would have left you, too, if I could have feasibly done so," Brand was serious about this. He hadn't been allowed to join her when she went after Howe, afraid to risk him or his reputation to what seemed like a certain trap.

"That would be..._interesting_," Alistair's voice grew rough in imitation of Loghain, "'Tell me, Warden, where is this man that would become the king of Ferelden?' and then you could say, 'Oh, I didn't want him to get hurt, so I left him in the larder at Eamon's with a wheel of cheese and a golem doll to occupy him.' _That_ would certainly impress the Landsmeet."

"Ha, _ha_. Hence, why you're here. And you'll get your golem doll one of these days. I'll just wait until you're good and angry with me and then _boom_, golem doll will make everything better."

"You make me sound so easy," he caught her elbow and pulled her closer. They remained linked until the massive gates leading to the palace district were in sight, colored banners snappy in a brisk, mid-morning breeze.

"Maker, this is really happening, isn't it?" Alistair drew a sharp breath and forced his feet to continue walking; it felt as if he was wading through swamp muck. Despite the imaginary resistance, the distance between them and the palace rapidly closed. One minute they were just able to make out the highest tower of the castle, the next they were being waived through the gate by a pair of intensely grumpy guards and then... and then...

"Warden, I am not surprised it has come to this. And Alistair. If you were even remotely worthy of being called Maric's son, you would already _be_ in the Landsmeet, now wouldn't you?" Ser Cauthrien greeted them in the foyer outside the Landsmeet Chamber, her fearsome sword gleaming in the dim light. Brand regarded her with barely concealed loathing, her eyes narrowing in The Look, the one that indicated to her companions that some business was about to happen. Ser Cauthrien should have realized that Brand Cousland was _not _in the mood to be harangued by a lackey, but Loghain's right hand was too busy deriding the Wardens for being audacious enough to stand against him. "You have torn Ferelden apart to oppose the very man who ensured you were born into freedom."

"Do you really not see what Loghain has become?" Brand's voice was almost strangled with frustration.

Cauthrien's brow wrinkled. "I'm aware that he has changed... It has been difficult for him to realize his own countrymen would turn against him. I'm not surprised he is bitter. But he is still a great man. One of the best Ferelden has seen."

"Yes, he was a hero _once_, but do heroes allow the massacre of innocent families?" The implication of whose innocent family she meant was painfully clear, "Would a great man let Howe torture his subjects?"

"You think war is simple, don't you, Warden?" Ser Cauthrien spat this out. "You only fight monsters. No one sheds a tear over the death of an ogre. Torture is an ugly business, but sometimes it's the only way to learn what your enemy intends. And it is much harder to tell who the enemy is when all of them look like you."

"You're right," Brand obviously saw no peaceful way out of this conversation and was reaching for her sword. "I _do_ only fight monsters but sometimes they do look like me. Howe has fallen; Loghain will be next. I don't think that you're a monster, Ser Cauthrien, but I can't allow this distraction from the Blight any longer." Brand nodded towards Cauthrien's greatsword, "Now, let's stop talking and show me _again_ what you can do with that thing."

Alistair watched in astonishment as Brand lunged at Cauthrien with both blades drawn. There were at least four archers positioned around the foyer, a reality which became pressing when a crossbow bolt whizzed past his ear. He looked back at the two women in battle in front of him, Brand had managed to avoid Cauthrien's first strike and had even scored a hit; there was a goodly amount of blood dripping down Cauthrien's tasset.

He decided to take out the archers, attacking them one at a time and positioned so he always had a column between himself and the others. They fell easily; he caught the first one as he fumbled to grab his daggers in preparation of a melee fight that never came. The second thought he could shoot Alistair point blank; while he aimed, Alistair dove in with Starfang, the enchanted sword tearing easily through the knight's chainmail, causing him to drop his weapon.

The third had his daggers out by the time Alistair found him, but Alistair had the advantage of range and flexibility. He easily dodged the strikes that flew at him and responded with a carefully timed sweep of his swords. Caught in the overlap of two powerful weapons, the archer's torso was neatly clipped and he fell forward just as Brand finished off the last of them, sweat pouring down her brow after having bested one of Ferelden's most lauded warriors. Cauthrien's body remained still in a rapidly expanding crimson pool, her sword driven through as if pinning her to the palace floor. It was macabre, but Alistair couldn't help but feel it justified. Cauthrien probably would have presented Brand's head to the Landsmeet had _she _won this battle.

Without discussion, they took a few minutes to compose themselves. It was one thing to stroll into the Landsmeet covered in blood, but it would be entirely unseemly to go in bloody _and_ panting.

"That was...bracing," Brand wiped her blades on the thick wool runner that spanned the length of the foyer. Alistair winced, suddenly aware that he would be in charge of the cleaning bill incurred by their little skirmish. "I was honestly hoping to end the day _not _splattered in gore."

Alistair smirked. "That's what you get for being optimistic."

"Yes, yes, I know. Always hope for the worst and you'll never be disappointed and all that." Loose strands of hair had fallen into her eyes; Alistair automatically went to push them away, but his hand paused in mid-air.

_This is it._

"Brand?"

"Hmmm?" She was looking back at Cauthrien, a shadow of...something crossed her face.

"Kiss me."

Her focus turned back to him. He expected her to question his request, but she just went for it, arms thrown around his neck, pressing herself as hard as she could against him. Holding her waist with one arm, he brushed her cheek with his free hand, desperate for this moment to last forever. For the length of their embrace there was no Blight, no betrothal, no Landsmeet, no Loghain. The palace, Ferelden and the world beyond ceased to exist until only they were left, a pair of young lovers being young and in love. His mouth lingered against hers; as soon as he broke contact _it _would begin, that unendurable distance they'd have to put between each other.

_This can't last forever; you know that. It was _never_ going to last forever._ Alistair finally forced an end, taking Brand's face between both of his hands and pressing his forehead to hers. She reached up and held his wrists, eyes bright with tears that would not fall in his presence.

"All ready to be king?" She spoke in a whisper.

"Maybe? Oof_._ Is it something anyone can ever say they're ready to be?"

"But you're not afraid?"

Alistair stared into her wide green eyes, so close to his, and then down her slightly too long nose, to a mouth that never failed to respond to his stupid jokes and that was quite capable of telling several of its own. Then there was his scar on her chin, a faint reminder of the physical manifestations of their awkward not-quite-a-courtship, their first kiss shared only hours after he slashed her face open during a practice duel. Beyond that was a beautiful stretch of lank, muscle and an ever-changing constellation of bruises that he would miss with every fiber of his being.

"Of becoming king? No, I'm not afraid of becoming king. There's only one thing that I'm afraid of right now."

She didn't ask what he meant by that. He would have been disappointed if she had.

"Have I ever told you that I love you?" It came out so quietly that he wasn't sure if he said it or just thought it until he saw her face blossom into a wide smile, even as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.

"You have. And it probably _would_ hurt me to hear it again."

He laughed at this, probably a little too loudly. She joined in as they pulled apart, levity easing the separation. If everything else left him _this _was what he would remember. Not the fumbling, or the scars, or the tangle of sweaty limbs and hot breath, but the luminosity of her smile. It eclipsed everything else, even when her heart was breaking and she had the worst thing in the world waiting on the other side of a door that was right in front of her.

_I'm keeping you. _

His stomach gave a familiar lurch of foolish hope before twisting into an impossible knot. _We can't put this off any longer. _

"Let's just get this over with, shall we? If we wait much longer I might get sick all over my boots before the whole thing is finished. I don't know if they'd want to give me the crown after that, for fear that I might vomit on _it_, too."

Brand was distracted again, a slight frown creasing her brow, "What? Oh, now you're worried you might _not _become king? I guess this is really what you want then, isn't it?"

_What I _really _want is you._

"Or maybe I just think I'd look good in a crown?" She smiled again, briefly and not quite as wide, but he clung to it. He had no idea that he'd be clinging to it for years, pulling it apart to examine in the hopes of finding in it any hint of what was to happen next.

"Let's go then, and pray that we don't end up executed...or worse."

_What could possibly be worse than death?_ Alistair dared not ask this; he could go a happy man not ever knowing the answer to that question.

Brand pushed open the door and, together, they entered the Landsmeet Chamber.


	13. Circles

Alistair watched her from his cell; he had been watching her since the man she called Howe, like Howe was the filthiest thing a person could be called, left in a fit of pique. He watched her fall apart from behind, wondering if it was the things this Howe said, or if it was the letter she burnt, or if it was the whole damnable situation that was getting her down. _He _was still trying to fit everything together, the Arlessa Warden-Commander, the Howe, the mage, the ring and the her arriving to steal him from his boat.

The_ mage_ in particular had been on his mind a bit, actually. He arrived like the undead, staggering under a tray loaded with food and assorted medical supplies, eyes shadowed with complete exhaustion but his mouth curved in the barest hint of a grin. Bluth and Barkley were dismissed, both pinned down by the mage's _logic_ as they warned him against being alone with the man in the cell.

_All I have to do is think it and, within seconds, he's prisoner pulp._

This was bravado, it would take more than _thinking _to achieve such an end. The men believed the myth and scurried out, neither wanting to be splattered by prisoner pulp.

The mage gave Alistair food and poked at his face while he ate, working quickly and singing under his breath:

_There's a rooster in the henhouse, it came in on the sly  
The hens inside are happy, they have no need to fly  
The fox outside the henhouse, he's the one that knows-  
The rooster's a distraction, and that's the way it goes  
That's the way it goes, oh that's the way it goes,  
The rooster's a distraction, and that's the way it goes_

Alistair could not stop _glaring_ with his one good eye; he channeled every ounce of belligerent rage he possessed into that glare and the mage kept singing that stupid song, smiling and looking whole and almost totally content.

_Anders. _It was that name she called from the dark. Eons ago, it was Alistair's. He could not heal her, or fix her, or usually do more than die a hundred tiny deaths while she writhed against injuries that would kill most men, but she always called. She always wanted him beside her in case _this was it._

How long had she been with this man, this pale mage who seemed at once bookish and like the countless indolent ladykillers Alistair had met in Antiva? They had a history, yet there was something awkward and not quite worked out between them. There was a sense of flux, the lack of defined boundaries and defined responses.

Finished with his task, the mage tucked an errant strand of blond hair behind his ear, his knuckles scraping audibly against his shadowed jaw. Then he smirked.

_You know, usually when I heal someone, I get something in return. A silver or two, a gift, a _kiss_._

Alistair kicked The Glare up a notch, but decided to play along for some reason.

_My lips are all I have to offer, but I can't imagine they'd suit _your _purposes._

The mage chuckled and left Alistair alone in his cell, dropping into the desk chair and immediately turning to elemental tricks to distract himself from what had to be the worst kind of tired. A small ball of lightning crackled in his palm, and he sort of threw it at the wall, where it hit and left the faintest scorch mark. He did this several more times and Alistair gave up trying to think of questions to ask him, but one came anyway:

_Does she still have that ticklish spot on her left side, two ribs up?_ And it hit him in a rush, a perfect moment of her laughter, and her hair dark on pale sheets, and her skin against his, and _Maker_ he would have walked through a sea of fire for that woman. _Until she expected you to and you refused._

That's when he dove for the protection of the bedroll, fighting against another barrage of memories, of her face close to his and her voice saying things that made him tingle, blush and _beam_. On that pallet, he went through those emotions, only they reverberated in the distance and he longed to feel them at full force again, to feel anything but misery and jealousy at full force. _You will _never _learn, will you?_

He almost slept; he was there for what seemed like hours, the mage still singing and doing tricks that sounded impressive but probably weren't. He almost slept until she came in, with this Howe in tow, and there was something about a message and Anders burning it and then the Howe challenging her in a cryptic way. Bryce was brought up again, but Alistair kept his attention for the sound of Howe leaving, praying that he might be left alone with her.

And then it happened. He waited for her to approach his cell, but that moment never came. He rolled over to see her leaning against the door, no, _yearning_ against the door, her breathing deep and even until it was suddenly broken. That's when he said her name, that's when he called for her across a small room that might as well have been six years long.

He watched her turn and walk towards him, pushing the desk chair closer to where he was caged. Instead of unlocking the cell door, Brand merely inserted the key into its hole, the scrape of metal on metal echoing throughout the prison. She withdrew from this door, too, and took a seat on the far end of the desk, shoulders pressed against the stone wall, eyes closed, fingers idly sifting through an abandoned pile of scorched straw.

For a few moments, the key in the door seemed like a trick. Maybe the mage had rigged it to blow when it was turned, who knew? But he was sick of being imprisoned, of the metal between him and…her. He let himself out, eschewing the chair for a perch at the opposite end of the desk. He resumed watching, catching small details like how her skin was even more milk white now that she wasn't exposed to the elements every day, and her hands weren't as calloused.

Then, like the mage, her lips curved in a grin and he couldn't _not_ ask.

"Why are you smiling?"

She looked surprised, her eyes as green as they were the last time he held her, and color rose in her cheeks.

"I was thinking of a stupid joke I told once."

"Just once?" This was old Alistair coming through. _Not good._

"Well, I only made this particular stupid joke one time. And I guess it was more of a pun."

"I see," Alistair shifted uncomfortably. "I suppose you didn't come down here to sit in awkward silence or talk about the weather or...joke puns."

"No. But I don't exactly know where to start." She began to speak quickly, "I gave up on ever seeing you again, you know. When you weren't at the palace, and you weren't at Eamon's...I knew then. I stopped looking for you...not _active_ looking, more like watching, I guess. Anyway, I stopped _that_ after the Blight ended. I figured if you couldn't even stick around to..." she hesitated, the knife of what she almost said finding his gut with no difficulty. "Then you certainly wouldn't hang around to hear about all _my_ heroic doings. And whatnot."

Goodwill disappeared, replaced by a desire to return the wound left by implications.

"Well, leaving didn't spare me hearing about your...heroic doings. I think there are probably bars in _Par Vollen _full of drunken mercenaries who are singing about your...way with a sword."

"My _way with a sword?_" Brand sat up a little straighter, indignation sparking in her eyes.

The laugh that came out of Alistair was short, mirthless.

"Oh, suddenly you're a proper lady? You live in a keep full of male Wardens and nobody has once mentioned the reputation members of the order have for..._prowess_," he gave the last word a dangerous amount of subtext, his voice lowering to a purr. "And since you're the ultimate Warden, what with ending the Blight...well, you don't have to guess the number of free rounds I was able to score off my contributions to your myth. My personal favorite is a song that references your skilled grip. I would sing a few lines, but I have a broken jaw."

"And yet you've managed to say an awful lot of..._words_...with that broken jaw," Brand was seething. "You know, of all the things I thought you _might_ be out there doing, exploiting our sex life for booze was fairly low on the list."

"Well, it wasn't just booze," he leaned towards her, his eye narrowing dangerously, his mouth curling up in a cruel grin. "I managed to talk myself up a bit in the process. By the way, there are quite a few women throughout Thedas who extend their thanks to you."

He wanted her to ask about these women, because he had stories to tell. Embellished, of course, and most of them not his. Nobody would be able to stomach the true tales, the ones that ended with him curled up in the back room of a tavern, sweating ale and desperation, and lost to the fleeting echoes of how it felt to be enveloped by a green-eyed beauty with _that_ smile. Instead she withdrew, her face falling into blankness.

"Why did Eamon bring you back to Ferelden?" Her voice was as smooth and impersonal as glass.

"Eamon? Who said anything about _Eamon_?" He pitched his innocence over the top; Brand's brows knit together in frustration.

"I found the scroll in your cabin, on the ship. I know that it bore Eamon's seal and that you were supposed to meet him in Amaranthine two days after you arrived."

So the seal was the crux of her argument, the proof she spoke of as if that could explain her being there when his ship came in, or her possessing something she shouldn't. His hand slid to his pocket, and he grasped the object within.

"A seal, eh? _That's _what you're basing your accusations on?" He pulled his fisted hand out, his fingers curling away to reveal...

"Where did you get that?" Brand grabbed for the signet ring but he anticipated her, yanking away just before she could reach him. She lost her balance and nearly fell off the desk, a silver amulet spilling out of her blouse, the flickering torchlight catching in it.

"I got it from your pack. What I want to know is where _you_ got it," he was legitimately angry now. "Why in Andraste's name would you be carrying Eamon's signet ring?"

"It's not Eamon's ring," Brand spoke with carefully controlled rage, clinging to the amulet as if it were an anchor.

"It certainly _looks_ like Eamon's. I used to steal it away and play with it when I was younger. Did _you_ steal it away and play with it recently, dear Brandelyn?" He was speaking at a caress again, and it gave the words a sour taste in his mouth, "If you wanted me to come back so badly, you could have just written a nice note as yourself. I might have actually considered it; I do have such fond memories of your _grip_."

"Give me that ring," this was an order issued from Warden-Commander Brand Cousland, Conqueror of the Blight.

"Not until I get an explanation. _About everything_," this was a retort from a man with nothing left to lose, a man who didn't quail at the steel in her eyes because he would embrace it cutting him down.

"That ring belongs to _me_," throats could be slit with the precision of her speech. "It belongs to me and _my son_."

"Why would your son have Eamon's..." Alistair's mouth had gone rogue, his brain clicking just a few seconds too slow. Son. It was a round word _wrong son, you fool_ and why did she just say it? My son. _Is it _my_ son?_ His heart clenched and he was twenty-one again, touching her bared shoulder and breaking the news about Grey Wardens and the whole childlessness _thing_. What if they were both so broken that the taint actually fixed them? Hope took root in poisoned soil and it was the worst of all possible things to happen. "You...have a son?"

"Yes."

"Oh," Alistair examined the ring again _rings are also round_ nodding as a realization struck him. "His name is Bryce, isn't it? After your father, of course."

"Of course," her eyes were drawn shut, her chin lowering. She was touched, momentarily, but by what? His remembering a detail such as her father's name?

"Who is?...How old?...What is his age?" There was a small boy in him that clung to a window ledge, peering outside at a perfect sky, into a day full of unlimited possibilities_. Why should that sky be so blue? As if _this _would be a good thing? As if _this _could save you? _

"Bryce is four. He just recently turned, in fact."

"Ah, four." No amount of mathematical gymnastics could make that work and things crashed down inside him. "I hear they're...something, at that age. Just full of...fourness."

He stared at the ring in his hand, at this huge thing it represented, and suddenly there were many of him there, fighting for dominance; the harsh man he was, the good man he had been, the child retreating from a glorious day because the monastery was expecting him later that morning and _maybe_ _you can play outside with the other children once you've been settled. _There was also a man caught between shifts, stumbling away from the palace, his heart not breaking but numb _how could I have been so wrong about he_r, and where would he go to die from what felt like a sword through his stomach but was only disappointment tinged with betrayal and topped with _how did things fall apart so quickly?_

_Bryce_. Brand always said that name with such pride, when she could bring herself to say it at all. He imagined son Bryce had given her some immunity to the sorrow that always distorted her face when she thought about her father. _Maker_. Brand has a _son_ and this was _his_ ring, a ring that Alistair had once coveted. Besides the pretty designs it left in dirt and stolen bits of dough, it also _meant_ something to others. If he couldn't be king, he could wear this ring and everyone would look at him like he mattered and not like he was going to just get his sticky, muddy _bastard_ hands all over their finery.

He had another worry, shadowy but gaining form. Why did this belong to Brand and her son? Where had Bryce come from? Not the mage, things were too uncertain between them for there to be a five year bond, and why would a mage have this ring? He felt his forehead sort of contract and then there was this:

_Do you have any family, yourself? _

_Oh... you mean, am I married? I... no. No, I've never had the pleasure. If I did, I'd be lucky to find a woman as lovely as yourself. If I may be so bold, what of you, my lady? Are _you_ married?_

_No, I'm not._

_I find that hard to believe. Surely, that is a crime somewhere._

Alistair had been in a bit of a fugue state that day, half elated that Brand finally knew his dark secret and seemed more inclined to joke about it than care, and half worried for the fate of his home village. The flirtation between his lover and his ex-ward's younger brother seemed nothing more than courtly banter, although Teagan _had_ laid it on thick later _you are brave as well as beautiful, it seems_ and found it difficult to tear his eyes away from her for the rest of their visit.

He saw them together, an imagined moment that shocked him with its graphic clarity, and it was obviously the answer to this conundrum. Another piece clicked, his quick calculations on Bryce's age yielding a truth that sent a flare of jealousy through him.

"You got pregnant within a _year_?"

Brand did not respond, but leveled a glare of her own at him. It said _how dare you pass judgment on how I spent these past few years_ and _within a year of _what_, I wonder_?

"I'm not talking about this with you," she stood, and immediately stumbled. Alistair remembered her bloody footprints in the yard before dawn, the sword moving down her leg, the knife in her stomach and again there was that painful twist-slide from man to man and he caught her so she wouldn't fall. She automatically clung to him, her fingertips digging but not painfully into his forearms and her weight shifting her closer as he didn't let go, even though she was stable on two feet again, and even though the feeling of her there _near_ was _horrible_.

Like not having a drink when drink is how you've lived your life for the past sixty-odd months, the dive headlong into _this_ after so long of going without was...ouch. _And what was _this_?_

_This_ was almost immediately forgiving _her_ for letting _him_ ruin his life, for her role in that ruin and the things he threw away because she took herself away from him. In a way. _This_ was not even caring that she had a child with another man, and had a mage who had somehow slipped through time and taken Alistair's spot with her in the Wardens _but if Teagan is Bryce's father, where is Teagan now?_ _This_ was needing, desperately, to kiss her with the lips she bruised, to pull her into his arms again and erase the past sixty-odd months from existence, to pick up where they left off outside of the Landsmeet Chamber. Maybe he would end the day where he started- tangled and laughing and sort of sad but mostly _fine_ instead of tangled and devastated and wishing woe upon the whole world, but especially her and _especially_ himself.

_This_ was round in his mind, a perfect circle, and his skin still against hers. Then it was what the full force of that long distant emotion felt like when it flooded every corner of his being. In the forest and in the yard it had trickled a bit, an automatic response to her voice, or her pain, or her face. But that had been "Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are" and _this_ was "So, how would you like to join me in my tent?"

It _hurt_, a physical pain that wrenched his stomach and made him want to let loose his breakfast. Some places went sweaty, some went numb, his hands and feet prickled like they'd been asleep for years and his eyes loss their ability to focus on anything but a particular place on her body. He went for her neck, her fingertips relinquishing his forearms as he tugged back the collar of her blouse, and peeled away the compress stuck where her left shoulder met. His own teeth marks greeted him, the wound _wounds_ partially healed but the personal venom that went into their making still obvious

If Brand looked closely, she would have seen two men standing in front of her. The first was seventy-odd months gone, furious fist curling into the collar of her blouse as he fumed over the asshole who could hurt her like this, _how could anyone lose themselves like that_? The other was absolutely present, and absolutely knew how a person could lose himself like that, _but that didn't make it right_. His fist also twisted in the collar, even as guilt and shame twisted within him.

The first man sensed the culpability, sensed a burgeoning need for atonement, and blinked into this other man, who knew _and_ understood the inherent unfairness of life. That was the man who could better cope with sudden sons, and lives that were lived while time seemingly stood still. _He _was the one who knew all about the undertow, and was the man who could make it back to shore when Brand finally allowed really _real_ recognition to show itself in her features, causing his limbs to go tingly heavy with the full force of _hope_ expanding. _Maybe I'm not so far gone._

There was something else in her expression, her own regret as she looked at him with wide eyes dyed in sorrow, and said:

"Eamon is dead, Alistair."

It was her turn to catch him as his knees buckled. She didn't let go for the longest time, her fingertips returning to his arms, squeezing in sympathy and he fought back another urge to kiss her, fighting because now was not the time, and she wasn't exactly _healing_ him by being so close. He pulled away without warning and pushed his hands through his hair. It was too long on top and he had a tendency to make it peak backwards and _why am I thinking about my hair? _

"I was brought back to, possibly, be named Eamon's heir. He said...he said that he wanted to make it up to me. To make up everything," Alistair was still clutching the Guerrin family signet ring, a representation of the legitimacy he thought he might be able to achieve upon his return to Ferelden._ It was either that or alcohol soaked death in a foreign gutter. _"It seemed like a long shot, but he said he was certain he could smooth things over with...with Anora and the nobility. I was on my way to a tavern when I got the letter, determined to kill myself in ounces and over months. It felt like a sign, and all I could think about was not being _this_," he gestured to his broken, haggard face. "And trust me when I say that I deserve to be _this_. But I thought maybe I could leave it behind. I _wanted_ to leave it behind."

"Did you leave _any_ of it behind?"

"No. It's still all right in front of you. Nothing is _that _easy," Alistair offered the ring, dropping it into her outstretched palm. She immediately slid it on and Alistair's heart twisted.

"I can't leave you down here. I wanted to _help_ the man on that ship, not imprison him," her voice was soft as she contemplated her hand. "But I still don't know who tried to kill you, or me, or who...got to Eamon. Until I do, I'm not comfortable with anyone else knowing you're here. I have...I have a spare room in my apartment. You can sleep there and, if anyone asks, I'll just tell them that Anders is staying with us for awhile, until things settle."

"And that won't raise any suspicions?"

If she heard the unasked question, she didn't address it.

"No. Anders and my Senior Warden, Fiona, are always in and out. Raising Bryce is bit of a group effort, I guess you could say," she moved towards a door that Alistair hadn't noticed until that moment. "It leads to the tunnels under the Vigil and a passageway to my rooms. Whoever built this place was committed to such features. It's a bit creepy, but we shouldn't encounter anyone between here and there."

She grabbed a torch, and they were on their way. This was familiar, following her into the unknown, and it made him feel disjointed, the clarity from earlier muddled again by questions he needed answered. Catching her arm, he spun her around to face him.

"Where will Anders actually be sleeping during all this?"

"Wherever he wants, I imagine," Brand's cheeks were colored by more than torchlight. "Either in his chamber, or our sitting room. Sometimes he sits up with Bryce, and there's a...a _possibility_ he might stay with me. Why does it matter?"

Confirmation. Confirmation of one thing, but not the other niggling detail.

"And what of Teagan, what does _he_ think of your relationship with the mage? He never struck me as the type to be fine with sharing the mother of his child."

This was greeted with a sharp inhalation, and Brand's face closed. If he would have asked before, she would have let him keel over at the news of Eamon's death.

"I'm not talking about _that_ with _you_," again she said it and this time did not fall as she hurried ahead of him. Alistair could feel the enclosing shadows, the light growing smaller the longer he waited to chase after her. He didn't know which he preferred. With Eamon gone, Brand was the only person in the world who might be willing to fight for him, to keep him safe, or to save him herself.

_She didn't fight for you at the Landsmeet, she didn't come to save you when you left._

He shut his eye tight against that small voice. _You wanted to abandon that bitterness to the sea. _When he looked again, he could see shapes in the black around him, echoes perhaps of other men who had walked a similar path from personal darkness to something...less dark.

In the distance, the torchlight stopped getting smaller, Brand waiting for him despite...despite _everything_. When he finally caught up with her, she held the light to his face, to the uncovered left side that he'd unconsciously kept hidden during their conversation. She stared at his bruises and cuts, her eyes glowing with unshed tears caught in flame and her free hand reached up to brush very, very lightly against his jaw.

"I'm sorry," and she meant it. It covered several years of contusions and lacerations, of silence and absence. It did not heal him, however; there were still wounds that were just too deep for two words to close- those caused by small betrayals, avoided questions and personal complications. So he did not kiss her in thanks, even though he wanted to do more than just _follow_ the light out of darkness.

Instead, he smiled as much as he could with an impossible weight on him; exhaustion, loss and the constant confused flickering of who he was at any given moment nearly dragging him beneath the surface.

"I'm sorry, too."

And despite the words and the history yawning between them, _this _felt like a beginning.


	14. Easier aka The Wrong Man

**A Message From Surely:** I feel like I should start making a point of, um, pointing out when things start bumping against ye old M rating. This chapter definitely does that.

And I would like to thank everyone who is reading and reviewing. I am _always _grateful for the feedback and the support.

* * *

The Landsmeet was supposed to make things easier, and it did. In a way. They had troops, Loghain's men (what was left of them) and the royal army, and they didn't have to worry about being accosted by, well, _Loghain's men_ every time they tucked into a settlement for supplies.

What it _didn't_ do was make things easier for Brand. She didn't care about Loghain's men, because she had already killed a number of them and the survivors _knew_ it and held it against her. And she would have been given the royal army anyway because _that_ was the whole point. Loghain's presence alone almost killed her, his everything in such stark contrast to the man he replaced that she always imagined the earth tilting beneath her feet whenever she glanced in his direction, expecting her golden knight and, instead, seeing a sallow, bitter old man.

Sadly enough, it was the darkspawn that kept her going. They were always nearby, and it was almost a thrill to sense them and dive into battle and it was an _actual_ thrill the first time Loghain beheaded one and ended up covered in corrosive hot black blood that smelled worse than decay and sizzled against his skin.

_And they call this mercy._

_Don't forget you actually _drank_ that stuff._

_Yes, I had _completely_ forgotten almost dying from the taste alone._

In the absence of darkspawn, there was only traveling and thinking. The traveling was welcome; it marked a passage of time and progress and was how she survived after leaving Highever, her brain set on the road ahead and the ultimate destination. Back then it had been Ostagar and everything was uncertain. Now it was Redcliffe and she was painfully aware of the nightmare to come.

The thinking, though, was the _worst_. After wounds were healed, and tactical decisions had been made, and tents erected, and companions listened to, and bodies cleaned (and excuses to do any number of trivial tasks exhausted) it became a struggle to keep from curling up in a ball and just fading from existence. Instead, she began fading in other ways, but mostly by not eating and not sleeping.

It seemed a sound strategy, and a stealth one, until Leliana approached her one evening by the fire and flicked her firmly on the forehead.

_Oww…did you _really_ just _flick_ me?_

_Yes, and I will do more than flick you if you don't stop...this._

_Stop what?_

_Don't act innocent with me, Brandelyn, I know what you are doing!_

Then there was the sense of arms snaking around her waist, and hot breath on her neck.

_Do not be alarmed, my Warden, I am only trying to seduce you._

She was too taken aback to respond, a shocked _"Why don't you all hate me after what I did…and to one of _us_?"_ dying in her throat even as Zevran planted a gentle kiss on her jaw. While she was trying to come to her senses _did Zev just _kiss_ me, and where are his hands going?_ Leliana was waving a warm hunk of bread under her nose. It smelled _amazing_ and, within minutes, Brand found herself yielding to the temptation. After that there was more bread, fantastically crisp apples and delightfully pungent cheese and _nothing_ resembling charred rodent or partially done chicken or _whatever_ had been masquerading as camp cuisine these past months.

That was the last time she felt normal, or close to it, for _years_. Sitting by the fire with Leliana feeding her while she leaned against Zevran, who was snuggly warm, she could not help but love the both of them, her two blades for hire using their wiles to trick her back into life.

After _that_ it was The Sleep Issue. Brand took watch and stayed there, unyielding when relief came. Shale was her constant companion on those nights, sighing dramatically and conversationally handing out insults that others might mumble under their breath.

_It _does_ have a flair for the self-destructive, doesn't it? _Or_ If I'm going to be forced into monogamy, at least give me a partner who isn't a _total _waste_ and, Brand's favorite_, Oof, and I though _birds_ were the most frustrating creatures I'd have to deal with._

So her companions once again attempted to fix her. Wynne offered a soundly rejected shoulder to cry on, Oghren challenged her to drink dwarven ale that disappeared to no effect and Leliana tried to sing her to sleep and ended up bowed over her own lute, snoring softly. Zevran was almost able to poison her and Sten told ostensibly boring stories about the Qunari in his most affectless voice, but they were interesting to Brand and she didn't want to insult him by falling asleep, genuinely touched that he would even make the effort. Loghain and Shale did not approach the subject, which was for the best as they might _both_ use somewhat violent means to achieve their ends (head crushing and all that).

It was Morrigan who won this game. An arched eyebrow, a frustrated _hmph_ and this:

_I never thought _you_, of all people, would fall apart over a stupid little boy. How disap_point_ing._

And all Brand could do was stare accusingly at her own hands, as if _they'd_ ripped Alistair's heart out themselves, and then mumble…

_But I _loved_ him._

Morrigan may have heard her and, if she did, her eyes probably rolled to the heavens. Despite what _she_ might think, it wasn't a soppy sentiment Brand gave, but the cruelest of self-inflicted wounds. Until she uttered those four words to only a witch who did not care for such things, Brand herself had not known the truth in them.

She'd fought so long _against_ her feelings for Alistair, afraid of the distraction and what would happen if she lost yet _another_ dear to her heart, that they became buried in unbridled lust. In the days after the Landsmeet it seemed even less likely that what she'd felt before was love, because love did not stare someone in the face and calmly dismantle their dreams _and in front of __people_. But, having eaten, she realized by _that_ measure, love also didn't run away without hearing an explanation and she _knew_ that Alistair had loved her.

And maybe he knew that she loved him. Brand's last thought before Morrigan's sleep spell hit was whether this was possible. It _could_ have been that he abandoned the Wardens and the Blight because her actions had undermined what he felt were unimpeachable emotions. He didn't know why she spared Loghain, only that she had chosen the enemy over her own lover _and in front of people_. And who in their right mind wanted to live in a world where _that_ could happen, much less risk their life to _save_ it?

She slept until they arrived at Redcliffe, her body tossed into Bodahn's cart like any piece of armor or useless knickknack found on the road. It had been sleep only in the most technical of terms, the seething maelstrom of black hatred that haunted her for however long she was out kept true rest from being possible. It was almost a relief to gasp into consciousness, even as the taint within her burned so fiercely she truly expected to see her veins searing up through her skin.

Redcliffe was, of course, falling to the darkspawn. Redcliffe was _always_ falling to _something_, it seemed. It took hours to clear the village; just when they could feel like they were making significant headway a small horde would be birthed from the shadows by the tavern, or come streaming from behind the Chantry. They rose from the ground like man-sized cicadas and every one that fell to Brand's furious slicing left five more in its wake.

When she was able to finally collapse against a freshly slain ogre and _not_ be afraid an emissary's spell would find her, the sun had nearly disappeared over the horizon. Loghain offered his hand to pull her up, and she took it. The look on his face was all she needed to see to _know_ he was fully aware that he had been terribly wrong about the Grey Wardens.

Then there was the castle _also_ falling to darkspawn. This wasn't quite as horrible; once they eradicated the numbers within the courtyard it grew quiet and Brand was ushered, along with Loghain, in to receive council from Arl Eamon and Riordan.

_Riordan_. The name never felt right in her brain or on her tongue. He was the harbinger, the interloper, the one with spectacularly bad timing and a flair for the dramatic. After they agreed to march to Denerim the next morning, Brand was summoned to his room, where Loghain was already waiting. Riordan broke the news with his usual flair; one of them would have to die in order for the archdemon to be slain. One of them would have to sacrifice their soul in order to end the Blight.

No man had ever looked more baffled than Riordan when his earth-shattering announcement was greeted by simultaneous sighs of relief. Brand and Loghain were _both_ so ready to die it was almost _almost_ funny.

_I guess we'll be fighting over that last shot then, won't we?_

_I'm your commanding officer, you can't fight with me._

_Then I guess I'll have to do something clever. _

_Yes, because _that _worked_ _out for you so well in the past._

She left him stung, and then got stung herself. It was Morrigan again, and her damnable offer and all Brand could think about was the slim possibility that neither she nor Loghain, nor Conveniently Inconvenient Riordan, would be alive when it came time to confront the archdemon. If what the witch was saying had any truth, then her ritual meant the difference between possible victory and certain annihilation in the event there were no Grey Wardens left to fight.

That's how Loghain won his free night with a beautiful marsh witch and that's how Brand fell apart, thinking about the alternative. If Alistair had been here instead of Loghain…it was just too close and suddenly she saw his face _everywhere_ in the castle. This had been his home, once, and they'd stayed here together and done _things_ in the room that was hers for the night. If she tried to sleep there it would be an eternity of wide-eyed alarm while ghosts of her and him in happier times played over and within her. Even worse would be if Morrigan inserted herself into the whole thing and…

Brand was outside before she even knew she was leaving the castle, sagging against the low wall that edged the veranda and pressing her eyes with the heels of her hands in the hopes that she could drive away the images that just _wouldn't stop coming_. And all of a sudden it just seemed so crushingly _unfair_. How much could one person endure before their heart just gave up and their brain turned inside out from pressure and sorrow and confusion and the expectations of a world on shoulders that never really wanted _any_ expectations on them, much less _all_ of them?

Again, it was the darkspawn that saved her. Their residual stench permeated the yard and made her insides itch. It clung thickly to her mind and nothing else could exist in there for very long without being corrupted. So she stared at the sky and invited one poison to creep over and overwhelm the slightly less poisonous thoughts that plagued her.

She had no idea how long she'd been out there when Bann Teagan approached. He was still in his armor, although his gauntlets had been removed, and he carried a cloak that had probably belonged to Lady Isolde. _Before I killed her. _

_I brought this for you, Lady Cousland. It can get cold at night and I would hate for you to fall ill right before your battle._

Brand had run outside in her linen dressing gown, her hair still wet from the bath, and, of course, did not realize it until a man _and Bann sodding Teagan_, came to cover her up. She tried to be nonchalant as she took the cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, but Bann Teagan was far too much of a gentleman to make her feel uncomfortable. _Nonchalance is for the dogs._

_I guess I forgot to…put on clothes. Oh, _look_. No shoes, either!_

_Well, my lady, I imagine you have much on your mind._

_Yes, and what I wouldn't give to have _nothing_ on my mind. And, please, call me Brand._

Bann Teagan joined her on the wall, and they sat in companionable silence. Brand wondered if he was trying to decide which route to take- should he continue calling her "my lady" or just avoid any direct references at all? Noblemen struggled mightily with her reluctance to be referred by anything besides her (almost) given name.

The smell of darkspawn was fading in the night and, with it, went her seemingly infallible distraction. No matter how hard she tried to hold them back, soon her brain was flickering through moments, _pretty_ moments with smiles and laughter and warmth that did nothing but hurt.

_Are you someone who needs me to be strong?_

_Pardon?_

_You know, keep morale up and all that. I try pretty hard to appear like I have it all under control, but sometimes I don't and, I have to warn you, I might burst into tears at any moment. If you're someone who is counting on me for contemplative stoicism before battle, then you might be disappointed._

He smiled, she could see it from the corner of her eye, and reached over to smooth back a fallen lock of hair. This was forward, but she couldn't pretend that it wasn't the first thing to happen since she awoke that was remotely pleasant.

_Not to worry, Brand. Do whatever you need to do. Your secrets are safe with me._

And it was the tiniest of openings, a slightly flirtatious edge to his voice, but the light that trickled through that crack was _brilliant_ in the darkness and there was nothing in her that didn't want to kick the door open and see what else might pour out.

Bann Teagan _just_ _Teagan from here on out _took it surprisingly well, having her suddenly in his lap, arms around his neck, mouth pressed to his. She sensed only a small amount of _what to do with _this_, now?_ before his hands were on either side of her head and he was giving every indication of being immensely satisfied with this turn of events.

Teagan smelled and tasted like ripe red apples. Brand thought it strange she would notice such a detail as that because all she wasn't really thinking, rather wishing he would just carry her someplace secluded and keep her occupied for a few months while this whole Blight _thing_ blew over.

Instead he seemed to be trying to figure out what the _parameters_ on their situation might be. How does one handle the sudden onslaught of very public passion? Teagan was a man who had been raised to court a lady, and Brand was _allegedly_ a lady. But she doubted that many of the ladies he courted had ever ended up straddling him on a wall, hips pressed against his stomach, fingers buried in his hair and tongue behaving with deviant defiance.

She's pretty certain that it was the _writhing_ that put him over the edge.

_Brand, if this is something you'd like to continue..._

his words were polite, but the subtext was _please please please_

_...then perhaps we should find a less public forum._

They snuck inside and up to Teagan's room. There were very few people up at this hour, and Brand couldn't help but be reminded of the last time she was here, Alistair carrying her to her quarters on his back, her giggling contagious because _they_ were having fun but the business they were on was Serious, and giggling is _always_ contagious when business is Serious. Remembering Alistair only fed her desperation so, by the time they were safely alone in Teagan's quarters, Brand had pulled off her cloak and dressing gown before he could even light the lamp.

As Teagan looked her over, Brand was suddenly too aware of her scars and bruises, a network of white on white and every shade of blood imaginable. He wasn't Alistair, who never knew any better and was a battle battered mess himself. _He_ was a lord and probably used to women who didn't look like they were stitched together from corpses.

All he could do was smile appreciatively.

After that, he pulled her into his arms; her hands began tugging blindly at his armor as they kissed and he had obviously done this sort of thing before, because it didn't take him long _at all_ to find her weakness, the spot just beneath and behind her ear. At one point she felt him smile against her neck as she lost track of what she was doing, melting against him before resolve returned and the remaining pieces of chainmail fell to the floor and they worked together to pull off the rest of his clothing.

Once he was completely unshod, she lured him to the bed and he followed, stretching out above her. For the first time she noticed the faint freckles across his broad shoulders and a crescent shaped scar on his left pectoral. For reasons unknown, she pressed her mouth to this scar with languid sensuality, running her tongue over it and mapping it in her memory, perhaps grateful for the commonality. His fingers snaked though her hair as he lowered her to the bed and, for a moment, he observed her beneath him, sapphire eyes soft with desire.

_Maker, you are just…so beautiful. It's almost unfair. _

His hand curved around her breast and his touch was rough, but not unpleasantly so, and it wasn't difficult to once again lose herself in the sensations of intimacy. But it came back to her, a perfect kiss in imperfect circumstances and Alistair breathily invoking the Maker and declaring himself lucky. And that _didn't_ hurt because it caught her off-guard and carried her, heart and soul, to that second when she realized there was nothing about the man in front of her that she did not adore.

It was the _return_ from that memory that made her ache because she cared for Teagan, but not like _that_, and whatever pleasure she felt curdled to guilt in her stomach. Barely a month had passed since she'd last been with Alistair, barely a month had passed since she'd wanted nothing more in the world than to be with him _always_. But even as she thought this her body was reacting automatically to the touch of another, rubbing against him, legs parting and hands wandering along his torso, past his waist to find him hard and waiting for her to take the next step. She thought about just finishing him that way, using her hands or her mouth to lessen the commitment, but he pressed against her and she recognized, in this contact, was a question.

Her breath caught, a sharp inhalation that caused her to fall motionless as she held it still in her lungs.

_This_ was not right.

Teagan stopped and pulled away from her. She saw legitimate concern in his eyes as he asked:

_Are you sure this is what you want?_

And she _should_ have increased the space between them and thanked him for noticing, for not pushing forward without confirmation. She _should_ have stopped it then, because this was not what she wanted _at all_; Teagan was not _who_ she wanted. But her lack of desire for him was _dwarfed_ by her desperation. If she turned him out, she would be alone and, if she was alone, there would be nothing that could stand between her, her thoughts and the twisted hellscape of the nightmares that would be her only other viable distraction.

_Of course it's what I want._

With an arch of her back and her own gentle guidance he slid into her and the look of relieved gratitude on his face was immense. It was _almost_ impetus enough to out herself as a fraud, but Brand pushed back when he began to thrust. There was enough hesitation, though, that she momentarily panicked, afraid he'd see the writing even without her pointing to the wall. So, although it was the worst idea in the world (even worse than being _there_ in the first place), she closed her eyes and allowed herself to think of Alistair.

And she knew, every _second_ she knew, that this wasn't Alistair. Teagan looked different, and smelled different, and his taste, his texture, his _technique_ were all different. It wasn't bad, by any means, but he lacked Alistair's heat, possessed only a portion of Alistair's fervor, and his hands could not duplicate the delicious things that Alistair's did to her. But…_but_. Alistair was not the first man she'd been with and there was always little chance that he would be the last. This was a dance she knew well and, after a shaky start, her hips found their cadence and she let instinct take over.

And it _couldn't_ have been that enjoyable for him. She refused to acquiesce to his attempts to interject some tenderness into the proceedings, baring her teeth against his lips when he tried to kiss her and shrugging off his attempts to nuzzle at her neck. Instead she focused on _finishing_, driven by shifting surges of guilt, and pain, and need, and an underlying sense that she was only punishing herself and dragging a good man down with her.

The sex was physically _fine_ but, when she reached her climax, it was a drawing in and not a release. Her muscles were knotted with fatigue, the pre-orgasm tension just _staying there_. And, as her ragged breathing grew somewhat even, all she felt was regret for what she'd done to someone who only wanted to make sure she didn't freeze to death or embarrass herself in front of others who looked to _her_, of all people, to be strong.

But Teagan did not seem to realize he had been used or, if he did, he did not mind. A month later, after the Blight was ended and the archdemon slain by Brand's own sword, Teagan proposed to her. It was on a balcony of the palace, Brand an honored guest of the queen's, a hero to the people and a mess in her own eyes.

They were not alone. Fergus hung on the edges of their conversation, his expression clearly saying _don't screw this up, little sister; I _like_ this man._

And only Fergus could keep her from bursting out with _But don't you realize you were just my distraction for the evening?_ when Teagan's expression grew slightly worried, his brows growing closer the longer Brand didn't respond to his offer.

While she thought of the words that would most effectively convey how much Teagan did not want to be married to her _I punch in my sleep, and my morning breath is the worst_, despite any illusions he was under, she studied him and her mind clicked the other way..._The Selfish Way_. He was a handsome man, well-educated and kind. He knew exactly what she was beneath her current silk finery, worn at Leliana's insistence for entertaining visitors, and was not afraid of her or repulsed by her. According to Fergus, he had stayed at Fort Drakon during her convalescence when the healers were terrified to transport her body too far from where it had fallen after the final battle. He had slept in empty barracks and spent the days running errands for Wynne and the other medics attending to her.

And there was this: she had no _idea_ what she was doing now. With the Blight over, she had lost her purpose, her guiding light. Her companions were scattering to their own lives, Fergus would be returning to Highever and Brand could not bear to join him, at least not yet. It had been a year and the massacre of her family, of that terrible night when she saw almost everyone she loved cut down in front of her, was _still_ too fresh in her mind. With the Orlesian Wardens setting up in Amaranthine, she wasn't even necessary in her own order.

Suddenly, marrying Teagan seemed a reasonable thing. Maybe. A return to normalcy, a world she knew and one in which she wouldn't be required to endure so many impossible burdens. While her parents had held back on forcing her into anything arranged, it was always unlikely that she would have been able to marry for love. And she did truly _like_ Teagan. He was, in addition to everything else, _stable_. Stability was good, it was something she had lacked for so long and something she greatly needed.

But what of _him_? Would it be unfair to saddle him with a wife who didn't love him, or was he in the same boat as her, in need of someone to just _be_ with, even if the being wasn't something out of fairy tales or songs?

_You _do_ realize that I will make a terrible wife, don't you? I'm half-feral now, barely housebroken, and I've forgotten how to do much more than...stab things. And I'm a bit of a smartass._

_We can always hire people to handle the non-stabbing duties, and I have a remarkably high tolerance for smartasses, when they're also so lovely._

_And I'm a Grey Warden, I'm at Weisshaupt's beck and call. Then there's the...I don't know if I can have children. Because of the taint. I might not be able to provide you an heir. It's highly unlikely, from what I understand._

_I know what you are, Brand. And as long as we're...trying, I don't think anyone can complain about that. I know _I_ won't be complaining._

Fergus coughed at this. Brand couldn't tell if her brother was covering up embarrassment or amusement.

_And what about Charon? _

_Your mabari? Of course he can come...I don't live in a one-room hovel in Denerim. My estate in Rainesfere isn't large, but there is plenty of land and rabbits for him to chase. I can't imagine a better place for a warhound to retire, truth be told._

_Retire_. Brand almost laughed at this. She was still so young, only twenty-two, and she'd accomplished... things. Things people kept telling her were Awesome. She'd hit her peak and now it was a freefall into obscurity. Obscurity _sounded_ nice, but she also knew of her own tendency to _fade_ without a purpose. If she turned Teagan down, what would she do instead? Open a shop? Take up needlepoint? Wander the world that she had almost died to save?

While traveling to Ostagar with Duncan, Brand had once just _stopped walking_. She wasn't tired, or angry, or sad, or _anything_. It was almost as if her limbs had disappeared from beneath her, as if she were flickering out of existence. He'd not been _thrilled_ when he discovered she was no longer behind him, but when had Duncan _ever_ been thrilled? He did come back for her, his dark eyes betraying the smallest gleam of frustrated compassion.

_Are you injured?_

_No._

_Then keep walking._

And she had. She kept walking, even on ghost legs and her heart left miles and miles behind with her slain family. She kept walking after Ostagar, when she wished that Flemeth had left her for dead in the Tower of Ishal. She kept walking after killing Howe, when the visceral sensation of his flesh giving up its resistance to her sword took with it some measure of her humanity, and she'd kept walking when besting Ser Cauthrien had caused the same feeling of disquiet. The hardest walk, after the one to Ostagar, had been out of the Landsmeet. But she'd managed then, from Denerim to Redcliffe and back.

To victory and to songs.

But she was tired of walking. She wanted a place to live, not a place to stay. She wanted a bed, not a bedroll, or a cloak, or a length of scratchy wool salvaged from a bandit ransacked merchant's cart. She wanted stability and someone who would care if she stopped eating and sleeping, someone who would not let her flicker out of existence.

As she accepted Teagan's proposal, Fergus rushing forward to congratulate his new future brother-in-law, Brand tried not to think too hard about how, only a few months ago, her standards had been higher. She had once wanted someone to _love_, someone who clung to her in the night if only to remind her that she wasn't alone, someone who could make her laugh through her pain, someone who set her on fire and who burned for her in return.

_You _had_ that, and you traded it to another woman even before you kicked it to the curb. _

As her brother escorted her betrothed back into the palace for a celebratory drink, Brand remained on the balcony and allowed herself to go numb. There was no use dwelling on a future that probably never would have been, nor was there any use in hoping for more than she was positioned to receive. There was little chance that there existed a man who could capture her the way Alistair had; it was pointless to even dream it.

_So _this_ is settling._

It felt like a palace balustrade cool beneath sweaty palms, and sounded like the distant murmuring of jovial conversation. It was _everything _that lurked on the edges of her senses and never meant anything at all.


	15. Frustration

The passageway deposited them directly into Brand's foyer; sunlight spilt in through one window and illuminated a fairly large space. It was unfurnished save a small end table covered with the assorted flotsam and jetsam dropped there by Bryce's ever shifting attention.

She paused for a moment before waving Alistair through. There was no noise coming from Bryce's room, no telltale sound of Fiona humming or Anders singing or Bryce talking to himself (or Anders or Fiona or Pounce) about whatever might drift into his odd little mind.

Alistair stepped into her home with a look of absolute trepidation, as if being surrounded by the representation of her life without him was going to eat him alive. And it might. His heart skipped when he saw a small carved statuette _only if it's for a child, it's a doll_ and things that existed in abstract only seconds before became incredibly real.

Brand abandoned him for a moment, poking her head into rooms. First she checked Bryce's, which was empty and then her own, also empty. Teagan's office was always empty these days, so she moved on to the sitting room and it was her turn to go a little fluttery weird at what she saw there; Anders stretched on the upholstered settee, dead to the world, Ser Pounce-a-lot curled on his chest and Bryce tucked between his ankles and snoring softly. She wondered at her son, he hadn't been up for _that_ long, but his sleep during her absence was probably not entirely restful. Of course, there was _always_ the possibility that his slumber was artificially induced as a means of rest for someone else, but she didn't feel like dwelling on _that_.

Careful not to wake man nor beast, she pulled the door shut and turned back to Alistair, trying very hard to relegate him to a business area of her brain. Allowing him out of those confines would be dangerous and it almost happened once or twice _at __least_ _three times _in the prison.

"Would you like a bath?"

He startled at the question and even his skin seemed to draw away from her. _Not _together_, doofus_. She could not comprehend why he'd gone so skittish when, a few minutes earlier, he seemed almost fine.

"So?"

Twisting his fingers in the hem of Anders' shirt like a schoolgirl, he nodded. Progress.

"I'll run downstairs and have someone bring up water. Are you hungry at all?"

"A little," he stared at the ground, eye impenetrably dark, and Brand half expected him to ask for a barrel of ale or their finest brandy. She had no idea what he drank these days, only that he appeared to be suffering from some sort of withdrawal. It would at least explain the mood swings and the way his face seemed to tear through emotions faster than any human should have them.

"Now...where to put you." There was a very good chance that someone might wake up, or drop by her apartment unexpectedly. Since the bath would be made in the guest room, and the sitting room was occupied, Brand had little choice but to deposit Alistair in the last place she wanted him to be. Thinking about it the question he asked her in the passageway, it seemed fitting. He'd need to find out sooner or later.

"You can wait in here while I'm gone. Please stay put," this was _sort _of an order. She opened the door to Teagan's office and waved Alistair through before running downstairs to fetch a bath and a long overdue meal.

Alistair had _no_ idea what was going on for about three minutes. He was standing in someone's office, overwhelmed by a sense of _redness_. The walls were paneled in wood, but the furniture was covered with knotty red fabric with matching wool rugs. It was a narrow room, about ten feet wide and twenty feet deep with a massive desk facing him from the far end. _Some _light filtered through the window behind the desk, but it was insufficient. He sought out a lamp and the moment it was lit he wanted to blow it back out.

There were three large portraits behind the settee. The first was of King Maric and Queen Rowan, Alistair recognized his own face in his father's and the sting of familiarity, of seeing _that_ here, was deeply unpleasant. Next to that was Arl Eamon and Lady Isolde in full wedding regalia and it was almost as horrible as the first, a representation of what turned out to be a downturn in his life, a step away from quasi-stability and towards his miserable years at the monastery.

The last of the portraits, though, sent him reeling for the desk. It felt like payback, almost, for the snide question he asked about Bann Teagan in the dark tunnel a few minutes earlier.

It was _her_ and him, and they, too, were dressed for their wedding. Alistair tried to focus only on Teagan, in black and gold, and study how the artist made the man look younger than Alistair remembered him _or maybe she just has that effect on him_ and then he couldn't stop looking at Brand.

Her hair was down in the portrait and it seemed wrong to know that anyone else had seen her like that, hair down was for bathing and tent time and occasionally for _Leliana needs something to do with her hands_ time. Teagan held his arm around her, secure at her waist, and a dragon brooch was pinned at her shoulder. It was a brooch that Alistair knew to be blue enamel on silver since _he_ bought it for her as a _hey, wanna spend the rest of our lives together?_ gift because one time she mentioned that a blue dragon would be awesome. Even though he had never given it to her, leaving it in her pack instead, _that_ detail was a slap in the face, so much so that Alistair didn't even notice the undeniable etch of sadness in her eyes.

And Alistair just had to _sit down somewhere _and he couldn't leave his back to the Guerrins and their spouses, so he fell into the desk chair, fighting a wave of nausea.

_Brand_ married Teagan.

Brand _married_ Teagan.

Brand married _Teagan_.

Was this what she wanted all along? A husband, a child, and a title? Things she always acted as though were _expected_ of her and not anything she'd choose for herself? And where was Eamon during all this? Did he not pull his brother aside and explain a few things to him?

_Like what, exactly? 'Alistair loves her and, even though she betrayed _him_ and _he_ ran off, he'd still be _hurt_ if he ever found out about it?'_

That punctured his anger a bit, and he turned his attention to Teagan's desk. It looked as though it hadn't been used in months. Dust had not collected, but everything seemed...preserved. A journal lay open and there was no date on the last entry, about a trip to Redcliffe. Alistair flipped though the front half, not wanting to invade another man's privacy but compelled to anyway.

In between pages were loose pieces of parchment folded and tucked close to the spine. Alistair began to open one and wished he hadn't. It was a sketch of Brand unreal in its detail. She wore _her_ armor, Wade's splintmail, hair pulled back, and it was a distillation of his enduring image of her, down to her smile and the faint streaks that ran perpendicular to her mouth when at its truest.

_This is what you wanted to remember._

Even though it hurt him to see it, he refolded that memory and slid it beneath the waistband of his loaned pants, securing it at the small of his back. He then looked underneath the desk. There were a couple of toys there, a wooden horse on wheels and a few carved soldiers. Alistair remembered leaving behind a similar scene when he was a boy, after using Eamon's desk as a fort while the older man did paperwork. It had always felt safe and he was tempted to curl there now, to hide from the portraits on the walls and the things they meant and the journal of a man who was living the life that he...

_Don't even think that._

He propped his elbows on the desk, digging them painfully against the polished surface, and buried his head in his hands as if damming a tidal wave of thoughts. Strangely enough, none really came. It was almost blissful, the sudden emptiness, and he wished he knew how it happened. Being able to stop the torrent _and torment_ at will seemed like it would come in handy in the future.

After a few long moments, Alistair realized that he was being watched. As he hesitantly raised his head, almost expecting to see Teagan himself standing over him with a glower and a _why have you returned?_, he found himself nose to nose with a large orange and white…

"Mrawr?" The feline's gold eyes were bright in the relative dimness of the office, and there was something almost human in the way it fastened onto Alistair's gaze, as if it were measuring his soul against the things it could see there.

The cat took his surprised silence in stride, doing that cat _thing_ where they shrug off disinterest with mischief, bunny-hopping to the corner of Teagan's desk and nonchalantly knocking over an inkwell. As the dark liquid spilled slowly towards him, Alistair pulled back, and then found himself seizing the animal when it made a move to track through the mess.

"Don't get _in_ it! They'll know you were here!"

It was probably not the _greatest_ idea to grab a strange cat, but he seemed accustomed to being manhandled; it only twisted itself free from Alistair's grasp rather than using tooth or claw. With a whiff of mackerel, it fled to the window ledge, nudging the pane open and slipping outside before Alistair could stop it.

Leaning out, Alistair could see marmalade streaking along the roofline and down to a balcony.

"It's ok that he's out. Pounce owns this place."

He wheeled around to see Brand leaning against the doorway, her expression both frustrated and bemused. She carried a large basket and, as she approached (door clicking shut behind her), Alistair could smell fresh bread and the aroma of cookies.

With no fuss, she sat the basket on the desk and selected a couple of sweets before settling into the settee. If she saw the spilled ink on her husband's desk, she gave no indication and Alistair wasn't in the mood to tell her. Instead, he grabbed a piece of bread and began chewing thoughtfully, an action which did nothing for his still tender jaw.

They ate without speaking, Brand stared into the distance and Alistair watched her, wondering both about the new distraction causing the knot between her brows, and when he would work up the anger to confront her about the Teagan Issue. He was still feeling oddly calm.

Instead of addressing either concern, he sank back into the chair, "Pounce, eh?"

Brand finished chewing the bite in her mouth, a tiny smile pulling at her lips. "Ser Pounce-a-lot, actually."

"Oh, Maker," Alistair found himself genuinely amused at this, "_Ser __Pounce__-a-lot_? _Please_ tell me a child named him that."

"If _only_. That was Anders' doing and it would be an understatement to say that he was inordinately proud of himself for coming up with it."

"I'm under the impression that the mage is inordinately proud of _everything _he does," this came out with slightly more bitterness than Alistair had intended. He regretted it immediately, if only because Brand had been on the verge of laughter and whatever joy might have come from that died when she frowned slightly and withdrew back into her annoyed little shell.

"Yes, you've certainly got him pegged."

"I don't think I'm the only one," if the last thing he said was slightly bitter, this was lemon coated lemon with a side of lemon .

Her eyes closed and Alistair could see the telltale twitch as she tightened her jaw. This was Brand holding on for dear life, holding on to her temper and her tongue. He'd seen her angry before, he knew _exactly_ what she was capable of. And he _welcomed_ the rage.

Instead of yelling, Brand offered a level gaze and a proposal.

"We have a few before the chambermaids get up here. Why don't we just sit in silence so we can part for the afternoon on semi-decent terms. Ok?"

Alistair shook his head.

"Tell me about Teagan," his voice was low and demanding. "Tell me what happened and I'll shut up about it."

"And will you shut up about Anders?" Brand could not believe that she was even considering this.

"Until he _annoys_ me again," Alistair thought about going into detail, but decided against it. She seemed close to relenting and he didn't want to scare her away.

"Fine. Here's my Teagan story: I slept with him and he proposed. We got married, I got assigned as Warden-Commander and decided I'd rather be here than with him. He tried to talk me out of it, he failed on that score but I ended up getting pregnant. He left Rainesfere to live here, we had Bryce, and he was a good husband. I never loved him even though he deserved it and he was killed by bandits a year ago on the road near Redcliffe. And, since you were so curious about it earlier, _that's_ why he doesn't care about my..._anything_...with Anders. Now, _you_ owe _me_ silence."

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, the words on the tip of his tongue inadequate in the face of Brand's confession. Sorrow, too, trickled in. Teagan had been a good man and to learn of his death this close to Eamon's was difficult. But he was interrupted by the sound of chambermaids entering Brand's apartment. While they giggled faintly beyond Teagan's office, a pall fell over the two inside. Brand was lost in thought, her expression indescribably bereft.

Brand stood and to lean against the door, listening for the voices on the other side to gauge when it would be safe to usher Alistair to his new room. He joined her, studiously avoiding the ghosts on the wall and the macabre fact that Brand was the only one of the six still alive.

He stopped too close, he could feel the heat radiating off of her and he _should_ have pulled back, but he couldn't. His mind did a backslide and he was overwhelmed with the need to _comfort_ her, to clear the shadows in her eyes.

Even though it wasn't the best idea, he allowed himself to _wonder_. What would happen if he put his hands on either side of her shoulders and kissed her? What would it feel like to touch her, to taste her, to have her long, slender fingers raking through his hair? To have her chest pressed against his, her heart beating loud enough that he could use it to mark the passage of time in the only way that mattered? And would their skin still ignite at each other's fingertips so that he felt every inch of her pressed to him, even through the fabric of their clothes? And would she react the way she used to, tugging him into her, thighs tight against his waist, legs lacing possessively behind him as if any other woman _ever_ had a chance?

_I'm keeping you._

"Alistair?" Brand's voice was not breathless at his ear, but concerned and she looked like she was trying to become one with the door, as if to get as far away from him as she could. In his mind loomed the portrait of her on her wedding day, standing beside another man who had touched her and tasted her. She was no longer Alistair's. Perhaps she never had been. This thought sank like a stone to his stomach, turning the warm surge of desire to an ache of unrequited longing.

Beyond the door, another slammed shut and Brand hurriedly made her way to the foyer. Alistair followed, his limbs suddenly feeling weirdly sized and his head aching with confusion.

"This is your room," Alistair peered into a modestly sized chamber with a narrow bed, a well-stocked bookshelf and a small desk. Linens were piled on the bed and there was even a change of clothes that Brand must have fetched while she was gone. "I'm going to lock the door behind you, as much for your safety as anyone else's. By all rights, my apartment should be secure but this keep is full of, as Oghren calls them, twitchy mages and twitchier warriors. I have things I need to do, but I'll bring you some dinner in a few hours."

He stepped in and the door clicked shut behind him with finality. This was his new prison, a cozy little bedroom in the apartment of a woman he'd once loved, and who now made him want to fall to his knees in _holy Maker, there _has_ to be a way to make this easier_.

At least there were no paintings in here.

* * *

Seneschal Varel had only served Rendon Howe for a few months, but he would never forget the first words the former Arl had sneered at him:

"If you even _think_ I'm going to step into a room, you need to be on your feet and start hanging on my every word."

This had been the first in a litany of expectations for behavior indicating to Varel that Arl Howe had missed his calling as the Empress of Orlais. There were rules about eye contact, tone, and how much Varel was allowed to say on any given topic (and those guidelines shifted based on who was present at the time and Howe's desire to impress them). Even Varel's eyebrows were called into question, Howe sharply poking him in the chest to express the concern that he looked too disdainful of his master.

Varel had only wanted to serve the lord of the region he'd called home his entire life. Towards the end of his tenure, he only wanted to strangle him.

The Orlesian Wardens hadn't been much better. They scoffed openly about the Vigil's primitiveness, the way it reeked (as did all of Ferelden) of wet dog and barbarians. They cornered Varel to complain about the bare patches in the yard, the drafts in their living quarters and the relative attractiveness of the female population within the keep.

Varel began to suspect that he'd been sent a clutch of courtesans _masquerading_ as Wardens.

They demanded his respect, although nothing had been done by them to earn it. Every time one would puff his chest and point to his place in the order, Varel would struggle with not reminding them that the Orlesian Wardens had given zero aid against the Blight. Last time he checked, lingering at the border of one country while waiting for another to fall wasn't exactly _heroic_.

But he did his job, he called the senior Warden "Commander." He stood at attention when appropriate and deferred when expected. It was better than Howe, he supposed, because they weren't murderous bastards, but it was still more soul-crushing than it was fulfilling. When the darkspawn cut the Orlesians down to nil, he'd been sad at the loss of life but not so sad that he couldn't hope for the possibility that the next inhabitants would be more concerned with duty and less concerned with being served.

For some reason, he always thought of Howe and the Orlesians whenever Brand entered his office, inevitably stretching out on his settee with her feet propped on one arm and her hands folded against her stomach. She'd taken the mantle of Warden-Commander reluctantly and the title of Arlessa with even more hesitance. He'd had to repress a sigh of relief when a full week had passed and he'd not heard a single gripe about her quarters, or the cuisine, or the way his eyebrows reacted when he wasn't in perfect agreement with one of her orders.

This afternoon, his entire face was probably telegraphing his discontent quite clearly. First, it had been Nathaniel Howe reporting that the Commander had burnt the message received from Amaranthine. Then it had been smug Garavel to announce the door to the prison had been locked from the inside and nobody knew where she or the prisoner were.

Varel had heard from the chambermaids that Brand surfaced to request a bath. That news gave him a decent idea as to what was going on with their guest, and he was not even a little bit happy about it. Still, he allowed her to settle her posture on the settee before he crossed his arms over his chest and forced himself to harden. The memory of her pale and bleeding remained fresh in his mind, as did his residual concern for her well-being. Brand had a horrible tendency to push herself to the brink and it was only for the grace of her few closest advisors that she hadn't gone too far.

"You're giving me that _look_," she kept her eyes on the ceiling, her thumbs circling one another. "I imagine it has something to do with the prisoner. And probably something Howe had to tell you."

He gave her credit for self-awareness.

"I have a confession to make," Brand actually sat up for this, which did nothing to sooth Varel's nerves. "I know him. The prisoner, the man I saved in Amaranthine. "

Varel could not hide his disbelief, "How is this possible? What are the chances?"

Brand fell back, wincing in pain, and shrugged. "It shouldn't _be_ possible. I mean, there are good reasons why someone would want him assassinated, but the improbability of me getting involved at any level is..." She trailed off. Varel looked like he was about ready to just faint dead away.

"Please tell me that we aren't breaking laws just having this man under our roof. _Please _tell me that this isn't going to cause the crown to come bearing down on us."

She remained silent. _Guiltily_ so.

"Just who exactly is this man?" All traces of his earlier worry about Brand's health were gone, although he was seriously doubting her sanity.

"Well, his name is Alistair, and he was..." that was all she could get out before Varel interrupted her, his voice dropping so low she could barely hear him.

"_Alistair_? As in Maric's _bastard_, Alistair? As in exiled by Anora herself for abandoning the _Wardens_, of which _you_ are commander, Alistair?"

Brand got to her feet, unstable on her leg, and Varel automatically reached out to steady her.

"Varel, I know it's bad. But he's _still_ a Warden, even if he deserted. You can't just stop being one of us, you can only run away for a little while. If Anora comes after him, _we_ can keep him safe. He foreswore his claim to the throne in front of the Landsmeet, there's no reason for her to just assume that he's here to overthrow her." She saw Varel's eyes widen with horror. "Oh, _Maker_. He's _not_ here to overthrow her. Eamon was considering naming him his heir. _Eamon's_ the one who brought him back."

"While you _might_ be able to placate Queen Anora, this is not going to sit well with the nobility _or_ your men. How are they going to feel about him? He left during a Blight, he abandoned you with only two other Wardens and didn't even stay to fight on his own. Readmitting him would be a slap in their faces."

Brand head's dropped, she was unable to argue against the truth in her seneschal's words. Alistair had done more than just walk away from _her_, he'd turned his back on an entire country that needed him. But he was only human, and she wasn't about to throw him to the wolves without giving him an opportunity to prove himself. _One way or another._

"There is no single person in Thedas who has the right to hate Alistair more than me. He was my...we were..._comrades _for a year and he quit his _life_ over a decision I made, and without even waiting to hear an explanation. But he was a good man before that, the _best_, and just as instrumental in gathering our allies and ending the civil war as I was. _I'm_ giving him a second chance and the Wardens can get as mad as they want at me. The truth of the matter is that I would have given up on the Blight right out of Ostagar if he hadn't push me. Nobody can call me 'hero' without nodding at him when they do so."

There was a gleam of determination in Brand's eyes that meant Varel would not be able to sway her from this decision.

"I hope this man is worth the risk to your reputation, Commander."

Brand tilted her chin up. "He used to be worth several times that, Seneschal. I wouldn't have him cloistered in my apartment if I thought any less."

"Now what else did you want to talk about?" Varel's anger had gone slack. He would withhold his judgment of this Alistair until the man had an opportunity to do more than exist in stories.

"The message from Amaranthine, I suppose. It was from Aidan. Arl Eamon was found dead in his rooms at the boarding house. He was there to meet Alistair," Brand was surprised by how neutral she sounded saying this. Shouldn't she be more upset about Eamon's death? The day had been full of emotional turbulence, though, and she was tired of flying from one extreme to another; it was _exhausting_ and she barely had the energy to maintain apathy, let alone anything more.

"This is _terrible _news, my lady. Do you think he was killed by the same men who attacked you outside of the Vigil?"

Brand seated herself on his desk, pushing aside his papers to clear a spot. She looked empty now, all that fire and will reduced to resignation within a few minutes.

"I think it almost has to be the same people. I just don't know why. Eamon was well liked, and I trust Alistair told me the truth about why he was contacted. Eamon wasn't a fool, he wouldn't risk political stability to stage a coup and, besides interfering in an assassination attempt, I've made no noise about raising a rebellion. And even if someone was _trying _make me a scapegoat, _Anora_ knows I would never do that, especially with Bryce..."

"When it comes to politics, though, sometimes reason can be abandoned in the face of a threat to power. But we'll not dwell on that. Sigrun and her men should be back soon with what they found. Maybe they'll have something that will help clarify this situation." Varel put his hand on Brand's back, a comforting gesture that made her feel guilty for all the frustration she was certain she'd caused him, and would more than likely _continue_ to cause him.

"Do you ever wish you could trade me in for someone a little..._less_?" Brand scooted off of his desk and began limping to the door.

"There is no perfect man in the world, Commander. I cannot expect that from you, nor can you expect it from me. You're stubborn, impetuous and woefully lacking one _modicum_ of self-preservation but in the face of what your faults _could_ be, and when I take into consideration your strengths...well. It could be much, much worse. It _has_ been. At least _you've_ never ordered me to mind my eyebrows."

"I won't ask."

"That's really for the best."

* * *

Dinner at the Vigil was probably the best time to make a dramatic entrance. Not that Sigrun was given to dramatics. Well, she knew she _could_ be a bit repetitive with the whole dead thing, but that was an ingrained response and not _exactly_ attention seeking behavior.

Still, it was sometimes fun to be the center of attention, to have the eyes of an entire room straining to find you when you barely came up past the heads of those who were seated. It made the dwarf feel...important. She had a spot amongst the Commander's favored few, but she rarely made a point of taking advantage of the status that afforded her. This evening, however, she was feeling particularly theatrical.

That's why she burst through the dining hall doors shouting "Commander!" as though the keep was on fire and shouting "Commander!" was the only way to put it out.

Brand had been waiting for Sigrun's arrival, and seemed vaguely amused by the show. _As long as she doesn't crawl across the tables, we'll be fine._ Oghren was at Brand's elbow, tearing into a hunk of roast that she couldn't imagine he tasted, seeing how every bite was washed down with almost a tankard's worth of cider.

"Heh, Commander. Remember that one time I crawled across the tables to get to you? Sodding _kids_ wouldn't get out of my way."

"COMMANDER!" Brand saw Sigrun's head pop up over a row of men, arms waving madly in the air above her. Oghren grunted.

"That woman needs to learn some manners. Can't she see we're trying to eat here?"

"Oh, are you going to teach me those manners, Oghren? Seems a fine time to start trying," Sigrun appeared out of nowhere and was now leaning on the table between Brand and her co-commander. "So, do you want to hear what we found?"

There were almost thirty pairs of eyes trained on the two women at the back of the dining room. Normally, Brand would not conduct business so publicly but there was a faint wafting concern she was being secretive enough.

"OK, blow my mind. What did you find?"

Sigrun said nothing, but held up both hands, thumbs and index fingers touching to make zeros.

"Wait, what?" Brand automatically went for her side, the dagger wound that had been aching all day was definitely _not _a figment of her imagination. "How could you have found _nothing_?"

Sigrun laughed, her usual ebullient little giggle, and shook her head. "No, no. It's not like _that_ nothing. We found the bodies, but they had been stripped and dumped together in a ditch."

Only Sigrun could chuckle and say something that ended with "...dumped together in a ditch" and not come across like a complete nutjob.

"Stripped and dumped? How many sodding bodies were there? That seems like an intensive clean-up job," Oghren had set aside his dinner to participate in the conversation.

Sigrun shuddered, "We counted seventeen, but there may have been more underneath the others. We didn't care to look. There is only so much contact anyone wants to have with naked corpses."

"Did the Commander tell you how she took them out all on her own?" Brand's heart simultaneously quickened and sank. When did Anders get here?

"And where were you during all this, mage? I thought the one thing you were good at was keeping an eye on women."

Anders leaned forward in his seat nearly halfway down the great table, carefully propping his elbows on either side of his plate. His eyes met Brand's for the briefest of moments, before roving to Oghren, a sardonic smile lifting one side of his mouth.

"True, but this _is_ the Commander we're talking about. She's beyond even _my _most intensive efforts," his gaze returned to Brand and she struggled to keep her expression from betraying any of the myriad emotions she was feeling. "I don't think there's a man in Thedas who could keep her in his sights at _all_ times."

"Not that you haven't tried, huh Anders?" This was Ser Haver, a knight from Highever who Brand recruited herself a few years earlier. Haver was the king of saying the absolutely last thing you wanted him to. Because of this, he and Anders were rarely allowed to travel together, much less sit near one another at dinner. With _his _involvement, all signs were pointing towards this conversation being dragged into dangerous territory. Fortunately, before Anders could spit anything back, he was interrupted by a lithesome redhead taking the seat next to him, her hand automatically going for his arm.

_Penelope._

Brand had forgotten about her, somehow. The pretty maid was Anders' most recent conquest, and she was determined to make herself into something more. Not that Anders seemed to be dissuading this pursuit; his attention had shifted to her almost immediately and Brand tried to ignore the desperate little flail of jealousy in her chest.

"So what now, Commander?" Sigrun was still there and awaiting her next orders. Brand suddenly wanted to be alone.

"There's not a whole lot that can be done, I don't think. Thank you for going down there for me, Sigrun. Now, I'm going to excuse myself and turn in for the evening. These past few days have been _tiring_."

On the way to her apartment, Brand paused in the kitchen to gather food for Alistair and Bryce. Besides leftovers from dinner, she requested a small block of blue cheese and a large green apple. Alistair always had a fondness for the combination, and it seemed a small thing to give him in light of his current confinement.

_And it has _nothing_ to do with Anders getting pawed on by that chambermaid. Nothing at all._

* * *

Alistair was immensely grateful for the cheese.

Having relieved Fiona of Bryce tending duties, Brand delivered his meal with a forced smile. The afternoon had not gone nearly as well as she'd hoped. Varel was upset with her, her attempts to unearth more information about her assailants had been fruitless and..._well_. That afternoon just hadn't been the best.

He seemed far more relaxed than he had when she left him, his eye widening with clear delight at the selection of food. There was something endearing about the fact that he could still be cheered up with the right application of dairy product.

"It will just be Bryce and me in here tonight, and we'll stay in Bryce's room for the most part. If you want, feel free to use the parlor. There are more books in there and some games. It's not terribly exciting, but it might make you feel a little less...imprisoned."

"Thank you, Brand. This is nice."

She turned to leave, and he caught her by the hem of her blouse, his expression warm.

"I wanted to say that I'm sorry. About what I said earlier, and about what happened to Teagan. If I had any idea, I never would have...I wouldn't have pushed it the way I did," this was the most genuine he had been all day, and Brand was caught completely off guard.

"There was no harm done, Alistair. I _am_ pretty tough, in case you've forgotten."

He smiled, a lighting quick spark of amusement that _almost _brought nostalgic tears to her eyes.

"No, I haven't forgotten. And I have the broken face to remind me if I do!"

She cringed at first, but couldn't help laughing with him. It was a disconcertingly normal moment and as soon as it was over the awkward pause that ensued was all the stranger for it. _This _was going to be difficult to navigate; there would be no magic erasure of what happened between them during the Landsmeet, or any guide to help them bridge the gap between the people they'd been before and who they'd become. It was going to be frustrating, but she felt a small surge of hope. _Maybe _the worst of it could be forgiven.

And, by any measure, awkward moments were _always_ better than heartbreaking ones.

"I'm going to go now. Enjoy your dinner, and I'll see you in the morning."

* * *

Bryce continued Brand's lucky streak, going down with minimal fuss after a few off-key lullabies and a second promise of new horse in the morning. Her earlier assessment of his sleep had been correct; according to Fiona, he'd barely slept the entire week Brand was gone, napping in fits during the day and chatting quietly to Pounce at night.

When Anders arrived, she was just watching her son, the steady rise and fall of his chest calming after such an intense day. The mage made little noise in the doorway, but his cat perked up in acknowledgement and Brand gathered herself before Bryce could be awoken.

"You ran. I didn't even see you leave the dining hall," Anders followed her to her bedchamber, pulling the doors closed behind. "I guess I was too busy deflecting Haver and Penelope to notice."

Brand stopped short and spun around to face him.

"What did you say?"

"I was busy? Haver would've stayed on me all night if I paid him any mind and the less said about Penelope the better."

"Your thing with her has run its course?" Brand raised one eyebrow with deliberate skepticism.

"What _thing_?" His confusion was honest. "Oh, so you thought that I had _done _something with her?"

"Of course! She's pretty and you're _Anders_. You've been chasing after her for _weeks _now and she's doing that _thing_ that women do after they've been with you. Not the one thing, where I sort of feel like we should offer confessional services in the chapel. The other thing, where I feel like we should bottle you up somehow and sell it for extra gold. Why is there never any in between, by the way?"

Anders had the oddest expression on his face, something guarded.

"Brand, I haven't..." he shifted his weight and held up his pack. "I just came to check on your injuries. I'm feeling a bit off for conversing, but I think I can handle _this_ with little trouble."

That "just" stung a bit.

"I'm fine. I was getting ready to go to bed, so I think it can wait until tomorrow, if that's all right with you."

"_No_. No, it's not all right with me. You were stabbed less than twenty-four hours ago. I yanked a _dagger_ out of you. _You_ might have forgotten, but _I_ haven't. That's something that stays with a man," he approached her, taking her face between his hands. "I didn't save your life just so you could throw it away in a fit of petulance. I saved your life because everyone would be _so _on my back if I let you die on my watch."

Brand chuckled despite herself and Anders took the opportunity to guide her to the bed, helping her lay down and then pushing her shirt up and over her head to examine the knife wound. She held as still as she could as he cleaned it and reapplied a fresh poultice.

"How does it look?"

"Terrible. But it's not your fault, stab wounds have a tendency towards hideousness," he turned his attention to the laces of her pants, taking his time unknotting them, allowing his fingers to brush her bared stomach. With care, he pulled them off completely.

"I didn't realize my shins needed attention."

"Hey, who's the healer here?" He skimmed his palm along her non-injured thigh before focusing on the other. This took a little longer as the bandages had to be wrapped securely around her upper leg. Finished, he began throwing leftover components into his bag.

Brand sat up and grabbed his sleeve, bringing him towards her as she laid back onto the bed. He pressed against her side the way he had in Amaranthine and she tugged him down as close as he would allow himself to go, their mouths bumping hesitantly before she grew resolute, tilting her chin up to catch his lips full force with her own, parting them slightly.

"Anders?"

"Hmmm?" He was losing himself in the moment; she could feel him sinking further against her, his hand sliding up her neck, thumb stroking a tender spot on her throat.

"I think you should stay with me tonight."

He ran his tongue along her top lip and shook his head.

"Why not? And don't even try to answer without speaking."

"Because you're still too fragile," he began massaging her earlobe between his fingers as his mouth brushed along her jawline, his breath hot on her cheek.

"We don't have to do anything. People do still _sleep _in beds, you know."

This actually caused him to pause, "Brand, I don't think you know how much you're asking of me. I have almost no willpower when it comes to you."

"Is that why you took a few liberties with my check-up this evening?" She turned her head to meet his gaze, and she saw it there, a depth of desire she'd not glimpsed in another for so long _and it's for me_. "A lack of willpower?"

"Yes, and it's one of the perks of playing healer to a beautiful woman."

"You call me beautiful, and yet you reject my advances," Brand feigned hurt.

Anders pulled back, his hand lowering, his fingers tracing designs on her bare chest. She closed her eyes in contentment, dark lashes fanning against flushed cheeks, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"You're not just asking me to stay because you're lonely, are you?"

Her eyes snapped open, and she slid her hand over his, lacing their fingers together.

"Anders, I've been lonely for years. Trust me when I say I can handle it. I'm asking you to stay because I want _you _here with me, not just a warm body."

He remained silent, eyes rolling up thoughtfully as if focused on something only he could sense.

"Did you hear that?" This came out at a whisper.

She looked around nervously. "What? No, I didn't hear anything."

"Well, it wasn't much. Just my resolve breaking," he stood and began pulling off his shirt. "But I'm warning you right now, no fits of petulance when you realize how maddening it is be so close to what you want but unable to have it."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"Of course." He left the room for a moment to check the doors and when he returned, Brand was at her armoire, removing Loghain's locket. She turned and caught him watching her. Whatever she saw on his face made her smile, a _real _smile that did more for him than _ten _Penelopes could with their misguided affections and desperate groping beneath the dining room table.

"Maddening" couldn't even _begin _to describe it.


	16. Different aka The Right Man

**A Message from Surely: **This is rated M, for stuff. It also takes place directly after "Frustration".

* * *

It's dark in her chamber, and they are alone, and mostly naked and in a _bed_, for Maker's sake, and his hands are as slow as honey dripping from the comb and his touch light to the point of not existing. It feels nice enough, the way his subtle fingers coaxed at her nipples until they were firm under the warm pad of his thumb, but it truly was maddening, and it's maddening because this is _Anders_ and Anders deals in romps on tabletops, against doorways and in tiny closets and suddenly _she_ gets a hold of him and he's got all the time in Thedas and he seems intent on burning it.

But the worst part about it is this: every time she forces the issue, like arching her back to move her breast into his palm, or twitching her hip against That Spot, he just _stops_. His hand comes to a rest on the flat plane of her stomach, his tongue ceases whatever quiet mission he has it running and he waits until she is completely still next to him. This _pausing_ is how he gets Pounce to quit biting at him during playtime, how he lures Bryce into complacency when the child gets frantic tired and needs to be calmed down before he'll even consider sleep. And, apparently, this is how he deals with _her_, a grown woman who is mostly naked and flushed with desire for him.

No, the worst part is that it's _working_. When his focus finds itself beneath the band of her underclothes, she _needs_ to participate but remains motionless while he draws circles around her, ever deliberate but slightly firmer because things are close down there and the increased drag of his skin against hers is wonderful. But he stops this, too, and she sinks against the bed in disappointment.

"I'm holding still!" Anders taps his fingers, thoughtful.

"But you're tensing up," he allows himself a small kiss on the side of her nose.

"Of _course_ I am, it's all you'll let me do! Well, _now_ you're not."

"And how are things feeling when you do that, your leg and your side?"

"A _little_ sore, but..." and he stops her mouth with his, hand still pressing resolutely against her midsection. When he pulls away she feels a bit calmer and the referenced aches ache slightly less. She's still annoyed, though, because she just _wants_ him and it feels like a put-off. "Is this _all_ you're going to let me do?"

"Yes," he does not hesitate on this. "All for tonight, all for _here_. Maybe, in a couple days, we can get away for a few hours and go someplace secluded. There's a beautiful tree up on a hill not far from here, it has a stunning view of the rivers."

"And how many women have had the pleasure of your company on this hill with the stunning view of the rivers?"

He's taken aback. "None, I..."

And he can't finish, because there's a confession in the rest of it that betrays the _endurance_ of his longing for her. He could never tell her about the day years ago that he struck out with Ser Pounce-a-lot and found the tree. He could never confess that he sat cradled in its roots and watched the sun glitter off the currents below, thinking about his new Warden-Commander and how it would feel to have her there with him. She would be at his side, her cheek against his chest, enjoying the way his laughter reverberated in her ear, and he enjoying the way her face shifted against him when she smiled. The fantasy had smelled like the sticky sweet strawberry wine he noticed she favored with dinner and he could never bear to corrupt that false and perfect afternoon for a fling that wouldn't matter once clothes hit the grass.

"Hmmm," she then lets out a tiny sigh of annoyance.

"Brand, I don't want to hurt you."

This causes a shift in her, a sudden sense that he's protecting her from herself. Normally she's grateful for the extra set of eyes, but this is the second time in a row and sometimes a person just needs to make their own mistakes.

"What if I _want_ to be hurt?" And it's a repeat of before, but it's still over the line. Fortunately, it's Anders and his line is more of a suggestion than a rule. Even though, he goes stiff and slightly withdrawn. It's quiet for a few minutes, which is unusual because, well, _Anders_.

"Then you're with the wrong man," it's as serious as she's ever heard him be, each word measured and incredibly forceful despite how very quietly he says them.

And that's there, and what's _not_ there is how Anders is protecting himself in all of this, how _he_ doesn't want to get hurt even though he wants to be with her more than _anything_. But it's not just _sex_, which he can get on a regular basis from other sources, and it's not just _her_, who he has all the time because they're friends and they genuinely enjoy each other's company.

It's _really_ that imagined moment by the tree, where he can lay under the sky with the world at his feet and hold the one who gave him the freedom to be there. And to get _that _he needs to _be_ different than she expects him to be, to be a man who is present, a man who is aware, and a man who _knows_ who she is and not just a man who _thinks_ he knows.

He's viewing this as an escape, but he's never attempted to go from someplace he enjoys being to someplace he thinks he'd love to be. The worst thing that could happen is he screws up somehow because his _everything_ has gotten tied up in this woman and her son, and losing that would be unbearable. And _this_ is why commitments scare him. Something that should be so easy, like taking his best friend into his arms and making her his lover, becomes fraught with consequences and Anders has never had the best relationship with _those_.

Therefore, no matter how fast he wants to go, and their one completed assignation was quick but could have been even quicker, he goes slowly. Because he truly does not want to cause her pain but, even more truly, he does not want to dash towards a point of no return that might lose him more than he could ever hope to gain. There are exits on the way to bliss, and he needs to take care in passing them by.

Maybe he should tell her, but she's watching him in the dark, waiting for his return, and he has no idea how he could put those things into words and make him _not_ sound like an utter moron and kind of a jerk. So he kisses her instead.

Despite their mutual frustration, this kiss is perfect. There is no movement she wishes to make besides her lips and tongue against his and the minute shifts that entails. She doesn't know how it happens, but there is an abiding tranquility to their embrace, like a mind just before slumber when the night is a deep and infinite pool and the beautiful dreams that might come shimmer in the distance. There's silence and contentment and when his hand draws itself back down to its earlier pursuit, she remains pliant.

For what seems like an eternity, his head remains bowed to hers and his fingers play her with such cautious delicacy that the warmth from one and the warmth from the other overlap like the ripples from two stones simultaneously tossed into the same pond. It is painless and free from ghosts, and there is nothing else that exists besides each other and a moment that stretches flawless and fluid between them.

The release for this is as effortless as anything has been her entire life, less a grasp and more like letting go. It's open relief and she doesn't moan or gasp or cry out. Instead, she exhales against his mouth and it's a breath she's been holding for over sixty-odd months without ever realizing it.


	17. Plans

She moved like a river under moonlight, swift and almost impossible to discern.

The corridors of Vigil's Keep were full of places for one such as her, deep shadows, recessed doorways, and wide columns for hiding, carpeted hallways and staircases to muffle her already cat soft footfalls. Also helpful was the way the men and women in this place were so over-confident; they walked invulnerable and proud, like the Maker himself had blessed their heads and not damned them to a short life of bad dreams.

All told, being a Grey Warden seemed a lot like being a Crow. At least you didn't have to drink blood to become a Crow, you just had to make yourself immune to the way it felt spilling hot over blade and hand, a secret letting as intimate as a kiss and occasionally more satisfying.

Not that she was going to be deploying that tactic here. It was far too obvious and she wasn't about to disdain the Warden's egos only to have her own be her downfall. Even at this hour, when the Vigil maintained a silence so profound it was almost on the edge of surreal, the Commander would not be easily overtaken.

And she wasn't about to _stab_ a child to death. Some lines even the Crow in her would not cross.

What she had in mind would take a bit more _finesse_; flawless timing and subterfuge. For now, it was just a matter of taking what should come easily, her hands finding the handle of the door she'd been seeking in the dark, thirty-three steps from the west stairwell. She knew from experience that it creaked a bit about two inches into its swing, so she effortlessly picked the lock and pushed it open quickly, taking pains to not hit the bookshelf behind the door.

The room beyond was small but well-kept, a narrow bed along the far wall beneath a now shuttered window that offered a view of rolling hills beyond. She'd lain here before, watching the sky beyond the sill and wondering if it was true what people said about mages and their..._expansive_ sexual appetites.

It was _very_ disappointing that she'd yet to find out.

She crept into the chamber, pressing the door shut behind her the same way she had upon entry, and slunk towards the bed. _This_ part of the job would be pleasurable; it appealed both to her fondness for the seductive arts and her need for revenge.

Before she reached her target, she carefully palmed the dagger concealed at her wrist, the cool of the ivory handle a focal point as she cleared her head before the game really began. For the next twenty-four hours there would be no mistakes allowed, no leeway given. A single misstep could ruin _everything_.

And ruining everything would not endear her to _anyone_.

Sliding the dagger back into place, she reached her hand out to touch the man who would be the sacrificial lamb _but only after a little fun_, her face arranging itself into a mask of sensual vulnerability.

But there was no man to touch.

With a frustrated hiss, she grabbed a handful of covers and yanked them away from the bed. It was empty, which was _impossible_. The only way out of this hallway was by the west staircase, and she had been concealed there since she followed him to his room this evening. If he had left, she would have seen him _pass_.

If he wasn't in his room, where else could he be? These were all private sleeping quarters, ten single chambers and one suite...

_He's with the Commander._

The very thought seethed. The foolish bastard _would_ have to choose tonight to make his move, and it angered her beyond his mere absence. It made things personal _and_ considerably more difficult. Not only would she be forced to change plans, she'd have to account for the fact that he might be around to interfere.

Her hand was on the hilt of her dagger again, an anchor in suddenly unpredictable waters. There were other ways to do this, but it wouldn't be as much _fun_ or have as much _impact _and she wanted to make her mark with this one; she wanted the satisfaction, the glory _and_ the kill.

She pushed the blankets back onto the bed and made her exit, checking herself at the door for the volume of her breath and the quickening of her heart. Control would be the word now, control and _opportunism_.

The _kill_ was still within reach.

* * *

Brand awoke to a set of wide green eyes and a cherubic face smiling at her from the edge of her pillow.

"Anders! Brand is awake," Bryce leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"Bryce, how did you get in here?" She tried to sit up, but recalled what might be an unseemly state of affairs below her shoulders and decided that remaining under the covers would be for the best.

"He must have come through the window. Got blown in by the wind, probably," Anders voice came from behind her, and she rolled over to see that he was dressed and seated on top of the covers, taunting Pounce with a length of string. He didn't look at her, but his lips curved into a sweet smile under her gaze.

"No, not the window!" Bryce was _so_ indignant. "Windows are for _Pounce_!"

"True, true. What about the ceiling, did you fall in through a crack? Is there even a Bryce-sized crack for you to fall through?" Anders looked up, his face screwing in concentration. On the other side of her, Bryce was doing the exact same thing.

"There's one!" The crevice he pointed to above them was just a gap in the wood planks that lined the ceiling, about four inches long and two inches wide.

Anders laughed, "Do you _really_ expect me to believe that you could squeeze your fat belly through there?"

"My belly isn't fat," Bryce pulled up his tunic, pushing out his stomach. "Oghren says I need more ale!"

"Oh, now what have I told you about listening to Oghren?" Anders reached across Brand to hand off his string, Pounce following behind so closely he might as well be attached.

"_Don't."_

"Don't what?"

"Don't listen to Oghren. He's silly," Bryce had sat up and was trailing the string along the bed, Pounce hanging back, his butt wriggling in anticipation of the killing strike.

"And what did _I_ tell you about listening to _Anders_?" Brand poked her son gently in side, causing him to giggle-squirm. The string jerked back and Pounce went for it, jumping into the air to attack and landing on Bryce's hand with claws out. A pair of crimson lines bloomed across the child's knuckles; he pulled away in surprise and let out an annoyed little noise, examining the scratches with mild consternation.

He then calmly extended his hand to Anders with an ever-polite, "Please?"

Anders responded with equal aplomb, leaning across Brand and tracing one finger along the back of Bryce's hand, the flesh closing to leave behind only a smear of blood. Bryce smiled appreciatively, and flexed his fingers, as if testing that everything was really back to where it needed to be. It was the very thing Brand did whenever her hands were stiff or cold or battered from battle.

"_Maker_," this made her sit up, covers pinned firmly to her chest. "I think I just realized that my child has no idea what it means to be _hurt_."

"And you didn't just realize that your child is _exactly_ like you in every way. Well, not every way. He does say _please_." Anders shifted to allow her more blanket, his hand sliding deftly between her neck and the headboard so his fingers could twist idly in her hair. There were probably several good reasons to stop him, Bryce's presence not the least amongst them, but it felt incredibly _nice_ and it had been ages since anything had felt _nice_.

"Well, there's that. But he's being raised by healers, you and Fiona are there to patch him up immediately if he gets a cut or a bruise. If he thinks anything that harms him can simply be undone, he'll never learn to be wary of that which should make him wary. He needs to understand consequence and permanence. I mean, if he is as much like me as you seem to think, we're going to be pulling him out of fire enough as it is. All we need is for him to actually _believe_ he's invincible."

"So what's the rule here?" Anders was trying desperately to ignore the way his stomach had given a nervous flutter both times she said "we". _Does she mean her and me "we", or the Bryce Collective "we"?_ "No healing unless it's life threatening? What about no healing unless it's going to scar?"

"Oh, but I _like_ scars. They make for fun stories when you're drunk _and_ they add visual interest."

"Yes, they certainly do," his voice lowered suggestively and he stopped his fingers' toying to silently berate himself. _We aren't alone, we aren't alone._

That's when they heard someone enter the apartment. The trio froze, even Pounce holding still on his back, paws outstretched in search of the elusive string.

And that was the tableau that greeted Fiona when she appeared in Brand's doorway- Anders with his hand on Brand's neck, Brand obviously naked under the covers she had pulled up to her chin, and Bryce fishing for feline. _He_ was, of course, thrilled to see her.

"Fiona! Pounce scratched me and Anders went _pffffsh_," he dragged his finger over where his hand had been injured. "And now it's gone. And I fell in a crack, but I'm ok."

Normally, Fiona would play along with Bryce's rambling, fascinated by the way his mind caught and processed the things around him and the way these observations were expressed. Now, however, was not the time.

"I came to see if you would like to join me for breakfast, Brand. We didn't really get a chance to talk yesterday," she was trying to appear casual, but her normally faint Orlesian accent grew slightly more pronounced with each word. "Sound like a good idea?"

"Um, yes? I need to get dressed first..." Brand clung to her blankets, certain that even her _teeth_ were flushed with embarrassment. "Anders, would you please take Bryce to his room, maybe get his shoes on?"

The elven mage waited until she was alone with her commander to throw her hands up in frustration.

"What in the name of Andraste do you think you're doing? Do you even _know_ anymore?"

Brand threw aside her blankets, unconcerned with Fiona seeing her in only underwear, her brows drawing down in anger. "Weren't you pretty much urging me to have a go at him just yesterday morning?"

Fiona balked, "I was _joking_. Or talking about something more along the lines of a quick...thing."

"You were _joking_?" Brand pulled a clean length of linen from her armoire and began winding it tightly around her torso to secure her breasts and help ease a mild ache in her back. "You've been pushing me towards him for _months_ now."

The older woman at least had the decency to look a _little_ remorseful, "I didn't think you'd be dumb enough to _do_ it, at least not now. You're timing is spectacularly bad- you have Varel on the verge of an apoplexy, Garavel is spreading the rumor that you're plotting something and even _Oghren_ is worried. How do you think they'd react if they knew that you were up here fraternizing with one of your men?"

Brand secured her wrap and turned to look at Fiona, eyes frustrated.

"What does it change, really? I already have a hierarchy in place, and Anders has been my right hand since Zevran left. Everyone knows that."

"That might work for Oghren, but Garavel will see it as proof that you pay too much mind to your emotions, and Varel will have to deal with unhappy nobles..."

"_What_? Why would the nobles care about who I...with whom I _fraternize_? The Amaranthine arling isn't hereditary, it will pass to the next Warden-Commander, and that position _can_ be held by a mage. There isn't any reason for them to get shirty over this."

Some of Fiona's anger dissipated. "I hope you're not being overly optimistic. You'd be surprised at some of the reasons people can find to get shirty over mages, especially smartasses like Anders who have done nothing to endear themselves to the higher-ups."

"You say that like I haven't been bearing the brunt of _that_ biased foolishness since I conscripted him," Brand sighed and sat on the edge of her bed. "Fiona, I'll be honest- I really don't know what I'm doing. Not _with_ Anders. There's a lot to consider, but I don't want to. Maybe because I wouldn't be happy with the conclusions I know I'll draw, or maybe because I'm ready to be with him _now_, even if circumstances aren't right for it."

_Dammit_. Fiona crossed her arms across her chest, as if for warmth, "So what does he think about your plans for Bryce?"

Brand blinked and stared at her hands, guilt coloring her cheeks.

"Oh, _Brand_. You haven't _told_ him? Didn't you decide this months ago? Wasn't he in Denerim with you?" The mage was working up another fit of ire, "This definitely falls under the heading of things you need to consider, even if you don't want to."

"What part of 'Hey, here are my plans for the rest of my life. You in?' wouldn't freak someone like Anders out? He gets cagey when anyone asks him to join them for weekly brunch because that means he's locked in for at _least_ an hour."

"But you can't keep it from him! You don't have to frame it as something the two of you would do together. If he _does_ balk, then that would be a pretty huge indication you probably shouldn't get too involved, for Bryce's sake."

"For _Bryce's_ sake?" Brand was not happy at all with Fiona playing that card. "Again, what would it change? Anders is already so caught up in Bryce's life, leaving here is going to be hard on him no matter what. If I'm not going to be in a relationship with Anders because Bryce and I are moving to Denerim, then I might as well cut him out of our lives right now."

"That's _another_ thing you need to consider, then. But you can't keep _not_ telling him. It's going to stop being a secret soon and how do you think he'd feel hearing about this from anyone but you? How do you think he'd feel to discover that the child he's helping raise might be _king_ and nobody bothered to tell him?"

_He would be devastated_. Brand rubbed the spot between her eyes. Damn Fiona and her perfectly valid points.

"You're...right. Maker, why do you have to be right _all the time_? I'll tell him tonight after dinner," her stomach heaved a little. "I think I'd rather face a hundred genlocks than do this."

"You know it's for the best."

"Yeah, that doesn't make it any easier, Fi."

Fiona stepped out to allow Brand to finish dressing in peace, her head swimming from their conversation. There was no part of her that wanted to get in the middle of this, it had been hard enough to watch the two of them circle one another these past four years, the distance between them prescribed- Anders carrying on with his women and Brand playing the dutiful wife and widow. Neither had behaved in any way unseemly except to themselves, and now that they had the opportunity to give in without guilt, well...she could hardly blame them if they did. Even if she wanted to hide them away from one another until this passed _if it ever could pass_, she'd have to let them make their mess.

She could hear Bryce and Anders in the sitting room, singing about a hunchbacked ploughman and his cow Maroo, a ditty that always culminated in them bellowing moos between raucous laughter. They'd gotten Oghren in on it one night, Bryce on the table between empty tankards almost larger than he was, kicking his feet in delight every time the dwarf let loose with a bovine roar.

_You know, for someone who spent most of his life underground, you seem to have an affinity for surface livestock. Cattle might still have the edge in the hygiene department, though._

_Did you hear that, kid? _He's_ in the dress and I'm the one getting mocked._

Fiona stuck her head in just as Bryce dissolved into a mad fit of giggles before he could eke out anything resembling a moo.

"Have you seen my reading spectacles in here? I thought I might have left them the other night."

Anders turned to Bryce, who was standing on the settee beside him. "Did you hear that, Bryce? Fiona needs her spectacles and she's forgotten where she put them. Would you like me to find them for you, my lady? Perhaps I can scrounge up a cane and one of those lovely listening horn thingies."

"I'll tell you what you can do with your lovely listening horn thingy."

"Ooo, _Fiona_. I won't lie, I am _intrigued_ by the offer. It's just _your timing_..." he tilted his head towards Bryce, who was watching their exchange with his favorite bemused _adults are weird_ expression. Sometimes he would even press his hand to his cheek as if completely flummoxed by their strangeness_. I'll be over here with Anderseses Pounce_ he seemed to say with this gesture _you are _all_ too ridiculous for me_.

She decided against responding, turning on her heel and stalking over to the guest room. There was a small chance that she'd left them in there a few nights a...

"What the...?'

Inside the guest room that should be abandoned was a...a _man_. He sat on the neatly made bed, shoulders against the wall, dressed like Anders, but a little taller. His hair was dark blond, too long on top and twisted up. If he was surprised to see her, he didn't really let on, his gaze remaining slightly off forward so that she could only see him in partial profile.

"Fiona? Are you ok?" Brand had joined her in the door, and the man responded to _her_, flicking his gaze and offering an indecipherable grimace.

"Brand, who _is_ this?" Fiona turned, accusations darkening already near-black eyes. "Is _this_ the man that you saved in Amaranthine? The one who was bragging about how he _attacked_ you? In your _apartment_? The door wasn't even locked!"

"He _didn't_ brag about attacking me."

"I did, actually," Alistair's admission was emotionless; he'd returned to staring at the wall directly in front of him.

"_What?_ Why would you _do_ that?" Brand's stomach clenched. No wonder Varel had been so doubtful yesterday.

Alistair shrugged. If he was going to add anything in his defense, he never got a chance. Anders pushed his way in, his eyes expressing almost as much shock as Fiona's.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Alistair's head dropped back at the sound of the other man's voice. "Has he been here all night?"

Brand stepped forward and insinuated herself between the mages and her captive. "Listen, it's not a big deal. This is just a temporary set-up until we know what's going on. I couldn't keep him in that cell."

"Why not? Considering the condition we found him in, it was probably pretty deluxe compared to what he's accustomed to. I think a rubbish bin would be a step up, truth be told."

"Oh, so _compassionate_. You probably would have left me in the stables."

"Try the pig pen."

"_Boys_," Brand refused to waste time listening to Anders and Alistair bicker. Fiona was still glaring. "He's been here since yesterday afternoon with no incident. And I unlocked the door so he wouldn't feel trapped."

"So Anders wasn't the stupidest thing you've done recently."

"Hey!"

"Maker's breath, Fiona!" Brand could feel her neck warming with embarrassment. "I have everything under control and I have no concerns for our safety, ok? You know I wouldn't put Bryce in danger for _anything_."

"But he attacked you!" Fiona gasped, "Wait, is he the one who _bit_ you?"

Brand's hand flew to her shoulder and she frantically shook her head.

"I am, actually," Alistair glanced up at Brand and met her livid gaze. "What? She _asked_."

"Oh, so you're proud of yourself?" Fiona was tiny but, when she got _on_, she could easily fill a room with her wrath. "You couldn't use swords and fists like a _real_ warrior, you had to resort to fighting like an animal, like a sodding _hurlock_? She was there to _help_ you."

"I know," this had an undercurrent of true regret. But then he followed up with, "It's just, she's so _very_ bitable."

Brand didn't even have the chance to respond before light flared from Anders' hands and jolted Alistair, sending him sprawling across the bed, eye closed and mouth hanging open. The spell left behind a faint whiff of post rain sky and the barest sense of unease. It was a during battle feeling, but this was her _home_ and battles shouldn't be fought in her _home_.

"Anders! What did you do?" The last time she'd seen him lose his temper like that was when she was pregnant, the night that he and one of the new mage recruits had gotten into an argument about the Circle and ended up dueling until an errant spell, very similar to this one, had hit her and knocked her out.

Anders was breathing heavily, his hazel eyes cold and fixed on Alistair as if _daring_ him to regain consciousness. Fiona's face remained carefully blank and Bryce, _oh Maker, _Bryce was leaning in the doorway, his _adults are weird_ expression now closer to _adults are terrifying...and loud_.

"Bryce! Are you hungry, dear?" Brand muscled past Anders and took her son's outstretched hand. He cast one dubious look at Alistair and shrugged it off. He'd seen men passed out before and this didn't seem to faze him.

Fiona and Anders filed out after her, Anders locking the door behind them, and he was still so _angry_. Before she could leave the apartment, he caught her elbow and pulled her into the sitting room.

"We'll meet you downstairs in a few minutes, Fiona."

As soon as they were alone, Brand's eyebrow shot up. "_We_ will, will we?"

He ignored her sass, but his irritation was rapidly being replaced with open concern. "What exactly were you thinking, bringing him up here? After what he did to you?"

"After what he did to _me_? Have you _seen_ his face? Have you seen _him_? I think if either one of us should be scared, it would be him."

"Yes, because he seems like such a _rational_ person."

"He wouldn't do anything to hurt me. I trust that much. He might be the world's biggest jerk right now, but he's _not_ a bad person," Brand pushed her hands together, her knuckles cracking in the process. "And please don't...zap him anymore. I know why you did it, but I need to keep things civil from our end. I need him to trust _all_ of us. "

"Only because you said _please_," his eyes flashed with frustration. "Why didn't you at least tell me last night?"

"It slipped my mind?"

"_Slipped your mind?_ How does something like that _slip your mind_?"

Without thinking, Brand stretched up and forward and pressed her mouth to his, her hand resting on his chest for stability, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt as he responded with an unexpected amount of heat. For several seconds, they remained precarious on the edge of balance, life pausing around them. When Brand pulled away, Anders stayed motionless, eyes closed.

"Am I exonerated?" This was a low purr. He came to, shaking his head slightly.

"We can just..._do_ that, can't we? Like normal people, almost," he grinned crookedly. "_Awesome_."

* * *

The dining hall was noisy and that did nothing to help Fiona's head, which had started to ache the moment she stumbled over the Warden-Commander and her cozy little family moment. The ensuing argument, and the man in the room, weren't help at all. Something about him curled the edges of her consciousness, like a flame licking parchment but never quite igniting.

By the time Brand and Anders arrived, looking far happier than they had any right to, Bryce was already growing tired of his meal. Not even cider, which ranked up with Pounce as His Favorite Thing, could appease him. Anders, of course, made everything better- swooping in and humming a few bars of the song about the ploughman and his Maroo. Brand winced, she knew as well as Fiona what would be coming next.

"So help me, if I hear a single _moo_ out of either one of you..." Fiona augmented this threat with a scowl. Bryce had the sense to look intimidated. Anders just chuckled.

"Fiona is grumpy this morning, so we'll have to save our song for when we see the horses. I'm sure the stable hands will be more than happy to indulge us."

"Uh-oh, Farrier Frank just burst into a cold sweat and he doesn't even know why!" Brand plucked an untouched hunk of cheese from her son's plate and sat down next to him.

They spent the next hour eating and talking, the room emptying around them. Fiona maintained a quiet presence, smiling when required to placate Brand's worried glances. With Anders and his mother there, Bryce was happy as can be while they spun increasingly ridiculous scenarios for how they'd travel from the dining room to the stables, the most amusing of which involved Anders turning them all into frogs.

Fiona abandoned the trio when they spoke in earnest of going on their brief trip, passing as she did a desperately unhappy looking chambermaid in the hallway, peering through the dining room doorway.

Fiona almost asked what plagued her so, but following the young woman's gaze was all the answer needed- her amber eyes were focused determinedly on Anders laughing with his commander and her son, everything else in the world, including a chambermaid who had probably been promised that world only a few weeks earlier, coming in a distant second to their adoration.

She was definitely going to stay out of _that_ drama.

* * *

The afternoon fell quiet around her.

She prowled through the hallways of the keep, every inch of her surroundings accounted for and no movement made without careful consideration. She held the shadows against her, the parcel concealed in linens and clutched tightly. There was only one opportunity to succeed now, if she couldn't get _this_ into the Commander's quarters, _she'd_ be removed herself.

The door loomed huge in front of her, but it wasn't an impossible obstacle. She'd been in and out several times with packages such as this, replacing chamberpots, soiled linens and ferrying laundry back and forth. The Commander was easy-going with her staff, openly grateful for their work when she wasn't slightly bothered by her dependency upon them. It was a strange thing to feel from a woman born and bred into nobility. _She_ felt it was an affectation but it struck most of the maids as being genuine.

She turned the handle, and her heart stopped when she realized it was locked.

_Blast it all._

There would be no picking this one; it had been built with such precautions in mind and extensively tested by Master Zevran. If _he_ couldn't circumvent the mechanism, she had little hope of doing so.

Instead, she knocked and arranged her face into something resembling meekness. Nothing could be given away, least of all the subtly pounding excitement that crept into her limbs whenever a mission was nearing its zenith. This restraint did not come easy; she was imagining the Commander taking the package into her apartment, thinking it contained something mundane and never knowing it would be the end of her.

She only regretted she could not be there to see the realization on the woman's face. This was when a more direct knives-out approach would be preferred. Seeing her victory emerge as another's life faded was an exquisite yet rare pleasure.

But she could not allow herself disappointment, only a different kind of satisfaction. This time, success would have to be measured in lives destroyed and not blood let.

* * *

Bryce was napping and Alistair remained in _his_ room. He'd been conscious when they'd returned from their trip to the stables and unresponsive to her probes about why, exactly, he'd been such an _ass_ that morning. She left him with a basket of food, a large skin of water and a deck of cards.

It was Brand's intention to go through the stack of correspondences that accumulated in her absence from the Vigil. Instead, Anders followed her into her chamber and there was a slight change in plans.

Since his discovery this morning that she was truly no longer off-limits to him, unless of course there were others around, he'd taken every opportunity he could to touch her, in secret and not-so secret ways.

Now they were alone, she at her desk and him in a chair beside her. They were clothed and his hands remained topside. He was still just..._touching_ her. She remembered when he'd first been conscripted and he forever prowled the roofs that were accessible from the balconies. Most nights would find him stretched out under the stars, shivering but content. He was there because he _could_ be.

This afternoon, she was his newfound freedom and he was absolutely enchanted.

"You know, we've already done _stuff_. This seems a bit...delayed." He reached down and caught her behind the knee, running his palm down her calf. "And you've touched countless women, what novelty is there in petting me through my clothes?"

Anders smiled and pulled his hand up her thigh, "You don't like it?"

"Oh, I like it. It's just...confusing. You were playing with my hair this morning. What's different now?"

"I realized it."

"_It_?" She tore open a letter from Bann Flatley _Blah, blah Blaketon needs new retaining walls along the road leading into the settlement._

"That I can do this," he leaned forward and used his tongue to draw a line along her neck with obscene and shiver-inducing attention given to the _follow-through_. "And not have that moment of pants-wetting fear that I probably should have just kept it a fantasy."

"You fantasized about licking my neck, eh?"

"It _is_ a nice neck," he brushed his knuckles against her throat. "But I'd be remiss if I didn't say that any fantasies involving you and my tongue tend to go way beyond any single body part."

His fingers slid from her throat to her clavicle and began undoing the fastenings on her blouse while his eyes turned increasingly dark with purpose. There was no way she could focus on _mail_, what with thoughts about his tongue just overshadowing _everything_.

She turned to kiss him just as knocks echoed through the foyer.

"_Andraste's knickers_," Brand fell back in her chair as Anders leapt up to answer the door. He paused and looked back, eyebrows up.

"Send them away?"

"Yes. Unless it's Varel."

While he was gone, his voice filtering back to her at a murmur, she turned her attention to the next letter. Nothing she had seen impressed upon her the importance of her work, and it made her want to fling them all into the fireplace and just spend the afternoon with Anders _and his tongue_.

He returned a few minutes later carrying something in his arms.

She had to laugh when Bryce's head fell back sleepily and he offered a tired little grin.

"That was Penelope. She had something for you, but I told her she could bring it back tomorrow. Unfortunately..." he jostled Bryce. "You know, I have a few things I promised Oghren I'd take care of. Maybe now would be good time, since you have work to do. I think this guy will probably be out again in a few minutes, so you should have relative peace."

She agreed with great reluctance. Her duties couldn't be put off forever. Bryce was sent to his room to grab a few toys and Brand escorted Anders to the door.

"Have fun on the outside," she nudged him.

"Have fun being Arlessa," he nudged back and kissed her forehead. "And, since you're going to encourage your guest to stretch his legs the moment I leave, be _careful_."

He knew her too well. As soon as he was gone, she went back to Alistair's room and took a seat next to him on the bed. She wasn't entirely certain he had moved once since this morning, except to pick himself up from where he'd been knocked over.

"We're alone. Are you going to talk now?"

"I hadn't planned on it."

"You know, I'm trying to make things as comfortable as I can for you. I know it's not fair to keep you caged up here, but I don't have a lot of options right now."

"You could...let me go? Maybe? There's no reason for me to be here; with Eamon dead I'm worthless and probably considered highly dangerous."

Brand started, "Worthless? I think not. You can still fight, at least. There's always a need for skilled warriors, even in peaceful times."

This was greeted with a snort. "Yes, maybe I can become a knight. How many nobles do you think would even consider putting me in their service?"

"I would," this came without hesitation. "And I think Fergus would if I asked. If it's something you'd be interested in, after all this blows over, I can talk to him."

Alistair didn't respond, looking away instead. All she could see was his jaw clenching and unclenching, the muscles undulating beneath skin and sketchy facial hair.

"You only say that because you think you still know me," his voice was cold. "If you had any idea...you'd have let your mage do more than just knock me out."

Brand clutched her knees, and trained her eyes on him. She'd made a promise to herself once, a sanity-saving measure. On the eve of her wedding, alone in a guestroom in Redcliffe Castle, she'd decided that as long as she allowed herself to think of him, _to imagine_, to picture what their lives together could have been, she would never be happy. Thus, he had joined her parents in a way, the ghost of him and them and that she'd lost since the night Howe took it all from her locked away so she could move on. Emptiness was preferable to the vast ache of loss and regret. Living would not be living if she was always dreaming of the way it _could_ have been

So she hadn't thought of him, she never paused to picture where he might be or what he might be doing with his life. Sometimes rumors and tales would find their way to her, and she'd shrug them off and bury them with everything else. Eventually even the happiness they'd shared, the truly true rapport of two people in search of safety and solace, had seemed more like muscle memory and going through the motions than anything real.

While she'd never gotten so delusional to convince herself that what they had never existed, _he'd_ become more ideal than man. Or so she thought. But with him here now, she could still sense him. Even gritty, grim-eyed and bearing the marks from her own fists, even outwardly cold and cruel, _he_ was there. Perhaps he had done horrible things to survive, perhaps he'd become as bad some of the people they'd fought so hard against. But there was something salvageable, something familiar. It caught her before she fell in the prison, it apologized twice and it was fighting tears now, even while trying to convince her of its non-existence.

Brand almost said this, all of it. She almost poured herself out to him, _anything_ to prevent further scenes like the one that morning.

But they were interrupted by someone coming into the apartments with a bang and a sheepish, "Uh, hello? Commander?"

_Laure_. _Bleargh_. Laure was the last person Brand wanted to see, but she appeared in the doorway to Alistair's chamber with a ridiculously cheerful smile and a tray loaded down with three mugs of tea and some assorted pastries.

"Commander? We're making refreshments for the meeting this afternoon," she was breathless as always. "And Verity thought you might want something while you work? So I brought you and Bryce and..." she glanced nervously at Alistair. "I don't know his name, but I, uh, heard we had a guest? And I thought he might like something, too."

Brand pinched the bridge of her nose. She'd forgotten the weekly meeting was today. Everyone in employ of the Vigil or the Wardens received their wages during an informal gathering that usually lasted well into the night. She'd be expected to attend and would probably be spending most of her evening cornered by rumormongers and those who could always find the courage to berate her competency at the bottom of a free mug of ale.

"Uh...Commander?" Laure was waiting for instructions. Brand quickly stood, handing Alistair one of the larger mugs and then taking the tray for herself.

"Thank you, Laure. This was thoughtful. Tell Verity I appreciate the gesture. Now, if you could excuse us?"

Laure nodded, eyes wide, and hurried out of the apartment, shutting the door with a little less gusto this time.

"I'm going to be working in my room for a while, if you need anything just...call," Brand's sounded incredibly resigned to her own ears. Last night, she'd been hopeful about Alistair. Now she was worried again. _You knew this would be hard; stuttering steps and backsliding will be the rule for a long time._

Bryce was sprawled out in the middle of her chamber, staring at the ceiling. He'd surround himself with blocks but seemed to be lost for inspiration.

"I'm surprised you're not asleep, kiddo." His green eyes flicked towards her, his mouth twitching in interest over the contents of the tray she carried, "Would you like some tea and maybe a sweet?"

She placed the tray on the edge of the desk, dipping one fingertip into the smaller of the two remaining mugs. "It's still a bit hot, so it will be a minute before we can drink anything."

The stack of mail had not decreased since she'd left it, and it _certainly_ hadn't gotten any more interesting. Some letters were from acquaintances, some from strangers requesting her prayers for one thing or another (the Hero of Ferelden title conferring upon her some sort of special powers in these matters, apparently) while most were complaints from the lords of her arling. There was nothing that stood out, just the regular concerns or regular people.

The tea was tested again. It was a more acceptable temperature; she tapped the desk to indicate to Bryce that it was ok to drink and then went to take a sip from her own mug.

It was then that she saw a seal that made her set her cup down, heart leaping: a laurel on blue wax- it was a letter from her brother. _Finally!_ While she tore into that, Bryce was struggling to make himself drink, his face twisting in disdain as the steam hit his nose. He eventually pushed it onto the desk untested and went back to ceiling-gazing.

Fergus's letter was short, mostly a running account of events at Highever and a few brief updates on Norah, his three year-old daughter. A little over halfway through, the tone shifted dramatically:

_I need to speak to you soon, there are matters of import and concern that __must__ be addressed..._

"Brand!"

The urgency in Alistair's voice jolted her from the missive, and she whipped around to face him. He was already at the desk, somehow having crossed the room without her knowing. He grabbed both mugs and smelled them in turn, his eye darkening further as each came away.

"Did either of you drink any?"

Brand shook her head, panic surging in her, "Bryce? Did you drink any?"

Bryce remained lethargic, "No, it smelled funny."

"Wait, what?" She stood, and could feel her stomach lurch when she did so.

"That's what I thought, too," Alistair set the cups down and leaned close to her, speaking softly so that Bryce wouldn't be able to hear.

"I think we're being poisoned." Her breath caught. "It smells like a mixture that the Crows use. Most people can't detect it, but I can."

Brand was clinging to the edge of the desk for support, but she was only barely aware of anything beyond cold, black panic and fear and a memory that tore at the edge of her vision like the sharpest blade ever forged. She blinked it away. _They might try to kill me, but nobody would hurt Bryce. _Nobody_ could kill a child._

Then all she could see was Bryce, laying on the floor arms spread and face slack with the indolence of boredom and interrupted rest. She blinked again and it was Oren _oh, Maker not Oren_ her little nephew unmoving in a coagulating pool of his own blood spreading to mix with the blood of his also slain mother. Howe's men had cut him down, had done the same to the squires and the young scullions, death the only goal and no mind being paid to age or innocence and suddenly she was against Alistair, in shock even while the freeze of realization gave way to the heat of rage and a rising need to seek out the perpetrator of this atrocity and...

"Momma? What's wrong?" Bryce's voice wavered; his mother falling apart was not something he'd ever seen. She pulled away from Alistair, composure forcing itself on her with lightning speed. She had to remain calm, for Bryce's sake.

She remembered a story Morrigan had told her about how as a child, when the templars would come for her and her mother, Flemeth would turn the hunt into a game rather than scare Morrigan with the potential danger of their situation. Brand could not believe that she was going to take parenting cues from Flemeth, but it made more sense than causing her son panic.

"I'm fine, Bryce. Hey, I think we should find Anders and maybe go visit Varel, does that sound like fun?"

"Yeah," he sat up and pointed to Alistair. "Who's he?"

Brand walked over to her son, kneeling in front of him.

"This is Alistair, he's an old friend of mine and he knew your father, too. He's going to come with us to see Varel, is that ok?"

Bryce shrugged, and she stood again, pulling him up with her. Together, the three of them exited the apartment, a formerly safe haven for her and her family now tainted by this...

_Cowardice_. Only a coward would poison a child, only a person unable to confront the realities of their chosen task would take such an easy way out. It burned at her, and only the gentle pressure of Bryce's hand in her own kept her fury at bay.

Anders' room was not far from her own, the door ajar. She pushed it open, anticipating the squeal of rusty hinges and, for the second time in about five minutes, the world fell around her. She immediately pushed Bryce back away from the door, grabbing Alistair and tugging them into the first available room. It was Nathaniel's, and it was mercifully empty.

"Stay here with him," she was not even in her own body at this point. "Stay with him and don't let _anyone_ in. There should be a case of daggers under the bed. If you see anyone, _kill_ them."

She was gone before Alistair could respond, her feet moving on instinct back to Anders' room and maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her, but when she got back it was the same thing:

Anders splayed like Bryce _like Oren_ on his back with an ivory-handled dagger jutting from just above his hip, the bloom of blood spreading up his white shirt, the shirt she'd twisted in her fingers not a few hours earlier and _Anders doesn't bleed. _I_ bleed. _I_ bleed, and Anders stops it and he's supposed to be here to help me but look at all that blood._

She screamed. She screamed as loudly as she could, running to the stairwell.

"ANYONE, GET UP HERE! GET FIONA! NOW!"

She heard the sound of voices in response to her cries and she hurried back to Anders, her boot sliding out from under her as it hit blood-slick stone. She knelt beside his body, her hands running over his face, desperate for some sign of life, desperate for a response, terrible things happening in her mind as her skin contacted his, pleasant memories becoming ensnared in this, in this...

"Anders!" she yelled at him, sad-furious that he _wouldn't open his eyes_, livid that his hands were not reaching up to touch her she just wanted him to _touch_ her but he wasn't and she was no healer, so she couldn't tell if the pulse she felt at his neck was his heartbeat or her own blood rushing to be near him, and was that quivering of his chest a breath or wishful thinking?

She heard a broken sob and realized that it had torn itself from her throat.

Here she was, the Hero of Ferelden, one of the most fearsome warriors in Thedas and she was utterly helpless in this situation. Until help arrived, all she could do for the man she loved was kneel beside him and fervently pray that the force of _her_ will for him to survive was somehow transferrable from trembling palm to motionless cheek.


	18. SNAFU

Varel had no idea things could fall apart so quickly.

The afternoon had been quietly hectic, as were most wage days. The kitchen staff busied themselves with meal preparations, barrels of ale and crates of wine were brought up from the cellar, and Varel and Miss Woolsey, the Vigil treasurer, went over the pay sheets one last time before the gathering began.

The wages were dispersed in the throne room, where Woolsey would count out coins for the Commander to disperse to each employee, knight and Warden. Brand would usually say a few words, acknowledging outstanding service or giving a brief assessment of the state of affairs at the Vigil. It was a mostly casual affair that devolved into outright revelry as the afternoon stretched into evening and the alcohol flowed freely.

When the chaos started, Varel was attending to last minute details in the main hall, eying the recently set up lectern. He remembered running his hands across the freshly polished wood when one of the side doors flew open and a young woman stumbled in, holding her stomach and clutching her torn dress closed at the neck.

"What _happened_?" He ran forward to catch her, and she clung to him like he was her raft in a flood, sobbing against his chest. Panic welled in him as he searched the room for a familiar face. A familiar _female_ face. "_Laure!_ Laure, I need you!"

Brand's attendant came over immediately, her face falling as her eyes went wide at the sight of the devastated girl in Varel's arms.

"Penelope? Penelope, what's wrong?" This Penelope swayed from Varel into Laure and buried her face against a new neck, whispers falling from her lips like a litany against darkness. Varel listened closely but couldn't make any sense of her rambling. Laure was shaking her head with disbelief, but Penelope would not be dissuaded. "Are you certain? _Anders_...Anders _attacked_ you?"

Varel let out a small gasp, unable to moderate his surprise when the redhead nodded in affirmation.

"I was in his room, checking his...his chamberpot and he closed the door behind me..." she struggled for breath, her words getting choked out by will alone. "He's been...after me for weeks and he said that he was glad that I had finally come around...and then he _grabbed_ me..."

The seneschal could not bear to hear more, his stomach giving a lurch so violent he feared he might go sick on the spot.

"Penelope," his hand went up. "Where is Anders now? This must be dealt with _immediately_."

The woman let out another small sob and pulled her hands away from where they were pressed to her stomach. There were smears of blood across the bodice. "He's...he's in his room. When he came after me, I pulled my dagger. I keep it for safety, all the time. It's just a little knife. He should...he might not be alive." Her shoulders shook and she collapsed against Laure, who was looking as desperately lost as Varel felt.

"You stabbed him?" His voice sounded so hollow. _Maker_, he had no idea what was happening. "_Anders_ _attacked you?_"

"I think we established that, Varel!" Laure spat this, suddenly _furious_ for some reason. "What are you going to _do_ about it?"

Before he could respond, Ser Haver lumbered into the room, his cuirass half-buckled as if he had been caught in the middle of putting it on.

"Seneschal! The Commander is upstairs screaming for help...something's happened, she needs Fiona!"

"The Commander?" Laure's face turned a deep shade of crimson.

"She must have found Anders," Varel nodded to Haver. "Fiona should be in the infirmary, run and get her. Anders has been stabbed."

"Stabbed? How do you-" Haver noticed Penelope hanging on Laure, her dress torn and splattered with blood. "Andraste's knickers, Varel. Are we sure we want to save him?"

This question scraped at something deep in Varel and he was suddenly certain no part of him believed Anders had done _anything _to _anyone_.

"His fate is not ours to decide, now find Fiona _immediately_. _That_ is an order from your Commander!"

Face paling under reprimand of the seneschal, Haver left at a jog, barely clearing the door before an explosion in the hallway sent him staggering back. Even Varel lost his footing for a moment as an aftershock of crashing masonry shook the floor.

_What could possibly happen next? Is the sky going to collapse on us?_ He looked to the far end of the room, a shocked crowd huddled by the door to the courtyard. "All non-Wardens evacuate!" Then, to Laure, "Get Penelope to the infirmary as fast as you can."

Varel rushed to the hallway to find the west staircase in all but ruin, a pile of wood, stone and carpet still partially obscured by the smoke. The stairs were the only means by which to access that portion of the living quarters and no one would be able to get up there unless they used the passageway that led to Brand's apartment.

"Commander!" He stopped as close to the rubble as he could, trying not to inhale any of the still billowing dust. He couldn't see to the landing and he prayed that she was somewhere beyond the haze."Brand, can you hear me?"

"Varel!" She was absolutely stricken. "Varel, Anders has been _stabbed_...and someone tried to poison us and _Maker_ what the _fuck_ has happened to the staircase?"

"Brand!" This shout came from behind and was accompanied by Fiona plowing into him, almost pitching both of them forward into the debris. "Haver told me that Anders has been hurt! Where is the injury?"

"Oh, _Fiona_. The knife is about where I was stabbed, a little closer to his hip."

"And he's _unconscious_? How much blood is there?"

"A fair amount? I don't _know_!" The tone of her voice was clearly _please,_ _just make everything better_.

"He should have tincture and poultices available in his room. Unless you think you can stop the bleeding with the dagger still in him, you'll have to pull it. Pour some solution on it, have a cloth ready to press and pull as quickly and cleanly as you can. The pain should be enough to revive him if he's..." she looked up at Varel, who was shaking his head in a quick but almost imperceptible motion. "Just be ready to apply pressure. Is your guest up there? An extra set of hands would be helpful."

"Alistair is with Bryce in Nate's room. I don't want Bryce to see Anders like this...in case he's..."

"Then get back to him!" This was from Varel. Fiona had gone suddenly still and white at his elbow and he caught her just before she tipped over. "Fiona?" He slid one hand beneath her chin and turned her face towards his, his voice softening in intimate concern. "Is everything all right?"

The elven woman blinked slowly, as if coming out of a very deep yet restless slumber, confusion and sorrow clinging to the edges of her expression. It took her a few seconds to fully focus on Varel and, when she did, she jerked away from him, eyes darting to make certain that nobody was around to witness the familiarity of their contact.

"Are there other wounded parties?" She sounded breathless, like she'd been caught in the abdomen by an invisible fist. "Since I can't help Anders, I need something to take my mind off of...him."

"We'll start clearing the rubble, hopefully no one was on the staircase when it fell..." he moved to walk away, but the events in the main hall were gnawing on him. "What would you think if I told you that Anders allegedly attacked a woman?"

Fiona was still in another world and she scoffed at this, "Are you kidding me? Have you _seen_ Anders recently? He's..." her face drew tight. "Wait, was it Penelope?"

Varel nodded hesitantly.

"_Dammit_, I knew there was something going on. She was watching them this morning, looking like she might take them out over their eggs," she sighed and kneaded her brow with such force that it left white marks. "This could get ugly. I saw Penelope and Laure heading to the infirmary, I'll see what I can find out. Send anyone else who might have been injured...of course."

She left without another word, head down and arms wrapped around herself. Varel was well-aware of what she thought of her commander, and he knew that, despite her protestations to the contrary, she was fond of Anders. But nothing that was happening to them could explain the ghost that had awoken in her when she heard the name _Alistair_.

* * *

Brand tore herself away from the landing and ran back to Nathaniel's room, ignoring the lopsided blood tracks she passed on her return. Flinging the door open, she was greeted by...

"Arrrr!" Alistair sat on Nate's bed, a handkerchief wrapped at an angle around his head to cover his blackened eye and an awkwardly brandished dagger in his left hand.

"Awash, ye matey!" Bryce stood behind him, _was leaning over his shoulder_, waving a carved piece of driftwood.

"We're pirates," Alistair's unobstructed eye telegraphed absolute alarm. "And our ship is under attack."

"And you're a pirate, Brand. And so is Anders," Bryce cheerfully swung the driftwood in a wide arc, almost smacking Alistair upside the head.

"Yes, we _are _under attack. I just wanted to make sure you were all right..." Brand spoke hesitantly, Alistair nodding her along. _This_ _is ridiculous, and brilliant, and I should do my damndest to sell it_. "Not to fear, ye scurvy mates. I will save us! And I'll, uh, be back in a few minutes."

With Bryce's safety accounted for, Brand dashed back to Anders' side. Fiona's directives gave her purpose and purpose diminished the swell of desperate concern that'd risen with the discovery of him in a pool of his own blood. She found his pack on the floor near his armoire and pulled out a jar of stringent solution. Her eyes scanned the room for anything she could use as a compress, settling on a stack of freshly washed linen strips.

With the materials at hand, she just had to focus on not freaking right out and doing something unspeakably stupid, something that might result in maiming him or worse _if he's not already "or worse"_.

She tried to pull the jar's stopper, but her hands were suddenly useless with tremors. _Calm down, calm down, calm down. The last thing you need to do is _kill_ him because you're too __worried__ to concentrate._

She drew a deep breath, pressing the jar against her stomach, then exhaled while counting to ten, willing her heart to slow. Feeling a bit more level, she managed to open the tincture without spilling any onto her own skin. If he lived, he should react to this regardless of how deeply he was under.

Hissing through her teeth in sympathy, she began pouring the clear solution _it smells like Oghren after our last visit to Orzammar_ where the blade intersected his side and he _twitched_, an obvious flinch that brought forth actual tears or relief.

With that out of the way, she positioned herself so she was aligned with the exact angle of the dagger handle, the strips of linen piled neatly on his stomach. She'd have to yank the blade straight out, as fast as she could. The memory of being in the reverse of this situation, Anders at her feet, hands steady but eyes betraying a huge amount of apprehension, hit her and she recalled how sodding much it _hurt_, how not even screaming was possible because all her energy had been focused on maintaining that excruciatingly high level of pain.

"This is going to be deeply unpleasant, and I am sorry," Brand drew a sharp breath and held it like a prize, counting to steel her nerves. "One..._two_..."

"Brand?"

She fell back, hands pulling away from the dagger as Anders shifted slightly.

"Oww, _Maker_, what did you _do_ to me?"

She could only stare at him. He seemed..._fine_. His eyes were a bit bleary and he _did_ still have that knife in him, but his color was good and he reached for her, connecting with her blood-soaked knee and _oh_, even that slight contact was _wonderful_.

"Brand, are you..._crying_?"

"Yes! Look at you...you're bleeding! _You_ are _bleeding_. And you were _unconscious_, so my normal way of dealing with _bleeding_ was not available and the stairs are gone and...why haven't you tried to heal yourself?"

"Because it's been _two_ _seconds_ and I don't want to make this knife a permanent part of my body. I mean, _sure_ it looks neat and it _would_ make for an interesting story, but it might interfere with..._other_ things. Unless you think you can work with it, in which case we could just cut holes in all of my robes."

She laughed at this and it felt _amazing_ to do so, "I don't think I'm _that_ creative. And point taken. Hold still and I'll get that thing out of you," she repositioned herself and he closed his eyes. "One...two..._three_..."

The dagger came out with a sickening _moist_ sound and they simultaneously went into action to staunch the flow of blood, she pushing his shirt up to press linen against the wound while he cast healing spells on himself. Even after a few minutes, when the bleeding had slowed to a bare ooze, she was reluctant to let him sit. He insisted and noted the way her brows pulled in frustration at his disobedience.

"Now you know how I feel _all the time_," he began rummaging through his bag for a poultice. She remained close, her hands curled at his stomach.

"What happened?"

"Penelope," he didn't look up from his task. "I came back from talking with Oghren and she was waiting here. She wouldn't tell me what she wanted, so I asked her to leave..."

"And she stabbed you?" He found a poultice mixture and went to apply it, Brand holding his shirt away from the injury.

"I assume. She came at me with the knife, and I tried to stun her but..." he looked confused. "She must have had something on her that reflected the spell, because _I_ was the one who got knocked out. I must say, I pack _quite_ a wallop. Have you seen her?"

Brand shook her head, "You were alone when we found you."

"Wait, _we_? Maker, Bryce didn't _see_ me like this, did he?"

"No, I caught him before he could. He's with Alistair in Nate's room. We were on our way to see Varel...I called for Fiona but the staircase _exploded_ so nobody can get up here now. We'll have to use the passage in my apartment to get back downstairs."

Anders was searching for something to bandage his side, "I don't know if I have anything clean enough to use on this. Could you look in my armoire, and maybe some clothes that aren't soaked in blood would be less traumatic for Bryce. And would you care to tell me what you mean by 'the staircase exploded'?"

"I don't know, I just heard a blast so I ran out there and the stairs were gone," she followed his orders, flinging out a fresh set of clothes but finding nothing that would work for a bandage. From down the hall, the echo of shouts reminded her that the Vigil was in a state of chaos that _she_ should be managing. Unthinkingly, she reached under her blouse and tugged at the cloth she had put on that morning to bind her breasts. It would be long enough for Anders and she could grab something else on their way through her quarters.

He was on his feet, having already tugged on the clean pants by the time she was ready to wrap him.

"I could have helped you with that, you know," his eyes were bright with interest. She wound the cloth around him, taking her time smoothing the fabric across his flat abdomen as she secured it. "Are you enjoying yourself, my lady?"

"This part, yes. I can see why you became a healer. I mean, it's still like 75% hands-off stuff, 20% unpleasant stuff and 5% groping, but the groping is..."

They both started at a cry in the distance and the rest of her task was done in chastened silence, Anders pulling on his non-bloodied shirt while she ran back down to her son and his temporary sitter.

Alistair and Bryce were pretty much where she'd left them, Bryce still as cheerful as ever about the game and Alistair looking slightly less frazzled.

"Are you boys having fun?"

Bryce bounded down from the bed, babbling near incoherently about monkeys dueling sharks and Alistair could only shrug, a slightly impish smile curling the corner of his mouth. For a moment, her son's arms wound around her legs and Alistair looking downright conspiratorial, she felt a powerful surge of _what if_. _What if _this_ was how it was _always_ supposed to be?_

She blinked hard on that thought and shoved _him_ back to the Business Area of her brain.

"We're heading to my apartment, we'll have to take the passageway down to get to the main hall," she leaned her head out of Nathaniel's room to call down to Anders. "Bring an empty jar, if you could."

Alistair busied himself with putting the dagger back in its case, "Whoever's room this is has quite the collection of deadly things."

"This is Nathaniel Howe's chamber," she paused and waited for the inevitable flicker of recognition.

"I heard you talking to him in the prison. So _you_ recruited Howe's _son_?"

"No, I set Howe's son free and he begged to join," she kicked at the doorway. "So I let him. Until Teagan died, I never regretted it."

"What has he done to make you regret it?" Alistair stood and approached her. Wary of allowing him too close, she inched into the hallway.

"Oh, he just hates me now and is a constant reminder of how utterly I..." she caught herself before she could finish..._a constant reminder of how utterly I failed Teagan in the end_. Alistair didn't need to hear this, nor did Bryce, who was still threading himself between her legs. She concluded lamely, "We just don't get along."

Anders emerged from his room then, favorite staff angled on his back and a jar in his hand. The four of them made their way to Brand's apartment, where she stopped to change out of her stained clothes and pour the now cold tea into the jar before placing it in her pack. She'd yet to tell Anders about the poisoning for fear he'd insist she remain up here with Bryce. It seemed a safer bet to find Varel first and see what exactly was going on. That way she could do her job without worrying about being placed under house arrest.

As a last second thought, she grabbed her twin daggers, belting them at her back and then pulling on a cloak for concealment. Her _home_ had been infiltrated, there was little doubt that more danger might also be lurking in the dark spaces of the Vigil.

The boys were gathered in the foyer, Ser Pounce-a-lot winding his way around Anders' ankles.

"I don't think we should take Pounce with us," Brand deftly unlatched the passageway door. "He's not as familiar with the tunnels as he is with the roofs, so Maker knows where he might end up if he ran off. The Deep Roads, probably. We'd be better off leaving him up here."

"You all _do_ realize he's a cat, don't you? Were he an actual person, he would have flung himself off a balcony years ago…for the name _alone_," Alistair smirked at Anders, who could only clutch his staff, eyes darting to Brand for back-up. _Nobody_ besmirched Pounce's honor.

"Bryce, how does it feel to be the most mature man in the room?"

Anders' eyebrows went up in confusion, "What did _I_ do?"

Bryce just shrugged. Brand yanked the passageway door open and went through, her hand catching Bryce's as Anders' staff flared with crystalline light to illuminate the darkness ahead.

* * *

By the time Brand and her mismatched party made their way to the Vigil courtyard, Varel was almost dead with worry. His nerves, certainly, were nearly frayed and he had half a mind to cut off his own ears, if only to guarantee that he would not have to listen to Garavel's _spew_ ever again. Holy Maker, the man just never _stopped_ when it came to the Commander and everything she did wrong.

After news of the the explosion and Penelope reached every single member of the Vigil staff, Varel had decided to amass everyone in the safety of the courtyard. It was easier to manage them all in this space and he, Woolsey, Garavel and Oghren were all able to take stock of those who were present and, more worryingly, those who _weren't_.

The assembly consisted of three distinct factions. The Vigil's knights and soldiers were looking for signs that they were under attack, seeing danger in every bird that wheeled overhead. The servants thronged together and whispered about _Anders_ and what he had done to that _sweet_ Penelope, her version of events mutated into something vile. The Wardens milled, most of them placid and content to wait for their Commander to speak before jumping to conclusions. Only Nathaniel Howe and Ser Haver seemed upset. Howe, at least, was solely focused on blaming Brand and the prisoner for the explosion.

When the seneschal saw Brand approaching, hand-in-hand with Bryce and flanked by the two men who had everyone in such an uproar, he swallowed down very real bile. He could sense the tension coming from the gathered mob, the uneasy shifting of those who wanted to believe in their Arlessa and Commander and the pulsing anger of those who were eager to assume the worst. Varel looked to his left and could see Oghren hanging back with the Wardens. The dwarf's brows were lowered in a scowl, his eyes trained on this Alistair, a man that Varel suddenly realized he _must_ have known.

Brand came to as stop almost twenty feet away from Varel, Anders positioning himself protectively behind Bryce and Alistair remaining further back.

"Commander, we have a...situation," Varel bowed his head so that she could get a sense of the understatement of his words.

"Seneschal, I think we have at least four situations," Brand's eyes were scanning the gathered crowd, even while she held her head straight forward. "Where is Penelope?"

"She should be in the infirmary, Commander," Varel struggled to keep his voice neutral. From the explosion of murmuring behind him, this was not what people were expecting Brand to ask.

"Then take me to the infirmary," Brand started towards the keep entrance and Ser Haver broke rank with the rest of the Wardens, rushing up to confront her.

Haver was a huge man and vast across the shoulders. He had at least a foot on the Commander and he was doing his best to intimidate her. "Commander, I will not allow you to take that..._mage_...anywhere near that poor girl."

"What poor girl? The poor girl who _stabbed_ him?" Brand was incredulous.

"So he claims. Of course he's not going to tell you what he did," Varel saw the knight's massive shoulders square threateningly. "That would seriously hurt his chances of getting into your armor. Or one would think. Maybe you have a _thing_ for rapists."

Those words cracked like a whip and silenced every voice in the courtyard. Varel could clearly see Anders' face as he recoiled in shock at the accusation, still managing to reach down to cover Bryce's ears.

"Warden, stand down _immediately_ or I will take you down myself," Brand moved her feet into a defensive stance and kept her eyes dancing from Haver's face to his hands. He wore an enormous broadsword on his back and, if it came down to it, she might be able to get in a few strikes before he could attack._ If she even bore arms._ There were no swords at her hips and Varel was becoming increasingly nervous that this situation was nearing a point of no return.

"You didn't see her, dress all torn and covered in blood," Haver's voice was still far too loud for comfort, but he stepped away, posture relaxing. "You can't just _trust_ him, can you? We all see how he flirts with these women. One finally says no and what does he do? You can't just _trust_ a mage."

"I will not stand here and listen to you say these things. I have no reason to doubt anything Anders has told me..._ever_," Brand managed to maintain a remarkably level tone, but her hands were trembling with anger.

"Oh, of _course_ not. He _is _your pet, after all. I say that _you_ cannot make a partial judgment in this matter, and I am asking that we hold the mage in the prison until we know what really happened. I find it highly coincidental that only a few minutes after she got away the staircase was consumed in a ball of fire. I don't know anyone who could have caused _that_."

"I was with him when the bomb went off; he was _unconscious_," Brand shot Varel a frantic look. Haver's call to have Anders held was a legitimate one- it was how they usually dealt with matters such as these. Anders, however, was not a usual case. Besides his position in the order, he might sooner run into the night than be imprisoned.

"She wanted to meet with him," the man behind Brand spoke, his jaw working as if he didn't do this talking thing very often. Over fifty pairs of eyes turned to Alistair; only Anders did not look, his focus saved for Haver. "Penelope brought something by Brand's...the _Commander's_ apartment and the mage answered the door. She wanted him to meet her in the...solarium? I think it was. He declined and she got angry. She also had a package, but he refused that, too. I didn't _see_ anything, but I heard it all."

Varel saw Haver's fists clench and, from the corner of his eye, Garavel moving towards the newcomer.

"Aren't you the prisoner from Amaranthine? You attacked the Commander and boasted about it. Why should we trust _anything_ you say?" Garavel sneered.

Alistair regarded Garavel calmly with his one clear eye, and shrugged, "You don't have to trust _anything_ I say, but you should trust this. I find the mage to be about as annoying as a person can possibly be, but I know what I heard and none of it fits with _him_ attacking _her_. And I'd say that whatever was in that package caused the little explosion, but _that's_ just a hunch."

Varel tilted his chin towards Alistair, "I believe that this man _could_ serve as an impartial party, don't you concur Ser Haver?"

"Why? Because he _says_ he's impartial?" Haver glared at Varel over one massive shoulder.

"You have a point. We really don't know if he's someone whose word is true," Varel's gaze flicked towards Oghren, who was still studying Alistair with unusual intensity. "What if we were given the word of someone we _do_ trust that he _is_, in fact, someone we can also trust. In this matter, at least."

Haver let out a small roar of laughter, "Fine, if that's what you want to try. You obviously haven't been listening to the rumors flying around this place. Attacking the Commander is only the half of it. Nobody here is going to let him decide _nothing_."

"_I_ will. He wouldn't lie about something like this," Oghren's voice was a low rumble across the courtyard. He made no move to step forward, and his expression remained severe, guarded. Garavel and Haver both turned to stare him down but he never took his eyes off Alistair, "This is your only chance with me, boy. You take _one_ step out of line and I'll get Nug Crusher out of retirement just so I can shove him up your arse. I shoulda hunted you down and done it five years ago, but _I_ took _my_ duties as a Warden _seriously_."

With that, the dwarf gave Brand a pointed look, "I'll meet you three in the infirmary. I haven't had a chance to piss in about ten hours and I'm not going to wet myself over _this_ sodding nonsense."

Oghren's judgment seemed to placate the masses and Brand was able to approach Varel without interference. At first opportunity, she tugged him aside so she could speak without alerting Anders. Miss Woolsey also joined them, her face inscrutable as always.

"I'm going to take these guys," she jerked her thumb towards Alistair and Anders, "with me to the infirmary. I think Garavel and Nathaniel should come, too. I don't want anyone to be able to accuse me of any cloak and dagger filth. You two should hand out wages. We need to try to maintain some sense of normalcy. Just position Wardens at every exit of the main hall," she drew a sigh, and pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead as if steadying herself. "Now, have either of you seen Verity this evening?"

Varel pulled back in confusion and he looked to Miss Woolsey for confirmation. "Commander," Woolsey's voice was ever cool. "Verity quit our service last week. Her husband found employ in Highever and she took her leave effective immediately."

For a few long moments, Brand stared past Varel as if reason and logic would converge there and show her the truth she sought.

"Varel, I think that Laure might be a spy."

This was said with such matter-of-fact calmness that Varel almost missed the implication.

"Wait, _what_?"

Her eyes fixed on his and they were suddenly discordant with growing fury, "She brought us tea this afternoon, and said it was Verity's idea. Had Alistair not been there, we would have...he says there's a poison the Crows use that only a few people can detect. Bryce smelled it, too, or _he_ would have..." her face flinched at the acknowledgement of her son's mortality. "She also saw Alistair in the prison, when Nathaniel and I went to see him and she greeted the messenger from Amaranthine. Andraste's _ass_, she could even have switched messages or..._something_..."

"Laure should be in the infirmary with Penelope," Varel's mouth twisted in concern as another realization struck. "But if Penelope attacked Anders unprovoked, and Laure tried to poison _you _then everyone _in_ there might be in danger..."

Brand was already running, a limping lope with her one bad leg. Varel watched her go, his heart pounding furiously against his chest. Stabbings and bombs and poisonings and showdowns... _Maker_, if something happened to Fiona on top of everything else...

This afternoon could very well be the end of him.


	19. Choices

For some reason, as she tore through the courtyard and into the keep, Brand was thinking about _Teagan_.

She thought about Teagan because he had turned out to be a consummate diplomat in the strange little world in which they found themselves- the merging of nobility, knights, Wardens, merchants and servants. _She_ was liked well enough by most everyone, but _Teagan_...the day Teagan moved in was the day that even those at the Vigil who held her in mild contempt found themselves being impressed with her for somehow tricking him into marriage.

Brand had no idea _how_ he did it. Maybe it was the listening, or maybe it was the drinking contests (or the humility and subtle charisma). He enjoyed hunting and would often arrange expeditions for anyone at the Vigil who wished to join him. He was a talented artist and would sketch portraits and landscapes for servants who needed a gift for a loved one. He was remarkably evenhanded when holding court, somehow always finding the decision that placated even the most extreme factions. Brand almost always ended up pissing _someone_ off, either with her decision or her _mouth_.

Then there were the _women_. They flirted quite openly and he handled them with polite and courtly charm, signaling his disinterest clearly yet without making anyone feel foolish or put off. Sometimes Brand found herself quietly cheering these young ladies on. They would smile their pretty smiles, he'd say something sweet about his lovely wife, shooting Brand a look laced with the perfect amount of lusty adoration, and she would be _so_ tempted to say "Have at, my lady" or "I'll be more than happy to leave you two alone."

But he was ever faithful- ever loved and respected. _Teagan_ would have been able to walk into that courtyard and nobody would think twice about letting him pass through with Anders and Alistair in tow. There'd be no confrontation with Ser Haver and Garavel, no horrible accusations of Anders attacking anyone, no need for Alistair to speak up _at all_.

_(Maker_, that had been the last thing she needed. She had no doubt that the rumor mill was burning now that he was a known quantity through association.)

Most of it was her own fault. She allowed her men to openly doubt her. She surrounded herself with oddballs and displayed blatant favoritism. She could be flippant, sarcastic and was always a little overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of people that answered to her. It all worked together to give the impression that she didn't care when things like what had just happened _happened_. Garavel thought she subsisted off their confrontations, and she had to admit that sometimes she saw exactly where he was coming from with _that_.

Even with the situation in the infirmary, Teagan would know what to do. He'd find a way to navigate this potential deathtrap and emerge with the best possible outcome. Brand just wanted to charge in, daggers first, and slit some throats.

It had been quite awhile since she'd just wanted to charge in, daggers first, and slit some throats.

These past few days had been a whirlwind of changing circumstances and fluctuating emotions. There were ghosts turning up _everywhere_, boundaries being redrawn and relationships redressed. Every other hour brought with it confrontations of mortality and mistakes and the confused longings of her own heart that had, she thought, given up on such things _years_ ago.

It was all very _confusing_ and that was even before it got terribly _personal_. She could handle being attacked in the open; hand-to-hand combat was honest. She was even willing to overlook a stabbing, although the defamation afterwards was pretty low. But the infiltrating and the poisoning and the wee child's cup filled with death..._no_. Absolutely unacceptable.

This was how she had felt standing outside of a certain door in a certain dungeon. This was how she felt after slicing her way through countless numbers of Howe's men. She had known _he_ was on the other side of that door, she could sense his cowardice, could hear the low hum of protective magic. She was eerily calm, then and now. She was deeply angry, then and now. And she was contemplating what _needed_ to be done, what she _wanted_ to do, and how satisfying it would feel to be the last thing Howe and Penelope and Laure saw before they died.

Except it _hadn't_ been satisfying to kill Howe. Her parents were no less dead, Fergus didn't get Oriana and Oren back, and Ser Gilmore never got his chance to become a Grey Warden. And _she_ had to live with what it felt like to kill a man out of vengeance. The way flesh yielded to her blade felt _different_ when it wasn't a strike made _purely_ for survival. It was hollow, cold, and alien.

Worst of all, there was no victory hymn when she assumed there would be a victory hymn; the world remained a terrible place that _still_ needed saving.

Outside of the infirmary door she tried to recapture the moment when she realized revenge-killing Howe gained her nothing much at all.

"So why _exactly_ were you running if you were going to wait for us anyway?" Brand tilted her head towards the sound of Anders' voice.

"I'm thinking."

"About what?"

"About what Teagan would do."

"...and?"

She turned to face him; Bryce was in tow, Alistair, Garavel and Nathaniel all close behind. The latter two were scowling. _Of course. _

"I don't think he'd go with my first instinct, which is admittedly a bit rash. I think he'd try to be diplomatic."

"Can you _be_ diplomatic?"

"We'll see," she sighed and held up her hand. "Stay here until I call."

"_What?_" Anders was _not_ going to obey, but she stopped him with a narrowing of her eyes.

"Just..._listen_."

Brand entered the infirmary and saw exactly what she expected- Fiona passed out on the floor, Penelope holding a scalpel to her throat. Laure stood guarding Shona and Blythe, Fiona's apprentices who were bound together, and she looked _nothing_ like the woman who had been flitting around the Vigil these past several months, causing headaches and sudden bursts of _I can handle it from here, thanks anyway_ everywhere she went. She looked..._hollow, cold, and alien_.

There wasn't much that could be done, really, so Brand took a seat on one of the empty beds, acknowledging the relief of being off her injured leg.

Laure and Penelope exchanged uneasy glances and Brand caught herself fighting a surge of satisfaction. They _had_ her, there was no move she would make as long as Fiona was at risk, but they also really had no place to _go_.

"Here's the deal," Brand chewed at her lip for a moment, thoughtful. "You plan on offering Fiona's safety for my life. Correct?"

Laure's jaw twitched and she gave one slow nod.

"Great. So kill me. Whatever, no big loss," Teagan would have probably been less fatalistic. "_However_, I imagine that I'm not the only person you need in order to complete your contract. Bryce is also a target, no?"

Large brown eyes flickered with frustration and Laure offered another, slight, affirmative gesture.

"I figured as much. If you were just after him for perverse reasons, you'd have the guts to actually kill him and watch him die instead of leaving it to chance," Brand was outside of herself for this, the words steel in her mouth and into Laure's ego, from her expression. Assassins didn't like to be called out on their failures. "Anyway, that's a problem. The man protecting Bryce? Would let you slaughter every single living thing in this keep before he let you anywhere near my child. Then it would be the two of you against him, and he'll _always_ have the advantage because he's fighting for something he loves and _you're_ not."

"You assume that there's only two of us here."

"And _you_ assume that you'd be able to take out more than one person in your attempt to complete your mission and escape," Brand swung her legs idly, her thigh exploding with pain that shot clear through her hip. She shrugged out of her cloak and unsheathed her daggers. Penelope, who'd been watching her with hateful amber eyes, scuttled back a little, pulling Fiona's chin at what had to be a horribly uncomfortable angle.

"What are you doing?" Laure's gaze shifted between Brand and Penelope. "We _will_ kill her. I never cared for the knife-eared _bitch_ myself."

Brand swallowed a sharp retort and laid the daggers aside. "Kill me instead. Kill me, then do your best to escape. You _might_ make it all the way through the door before you're promptly dispatched by four Wardens and a perpetually pissed off captain. And they will show you no mercy or leniency _at all_."

The tiny woman turned a most impressive shade of red and then _lunged_, a deadly blade materializing in her hand that caught lamplight as it arced towards Brand.

Brand instinctively rolled to the right, even though she had no need to. The air in front of her had thickened to a shimmering, solid wall and Laure hit it with bone-jarring force, her dagger sliding harmlessly across the surface and her face crashing against it. It took a moment for the smaller woman to gather herself, blood dripping from her gashed lip and rage twisting her features. It was too late, however. Oghren was behind her and he struck out with the pommel of his axe. The blow landed near the base of her skull and she crumpled like a discarded dress to the floor.

Penelope watched her partner fall and held the scalpel closer to Fiona's neck, her hand incredibly still despite the open terror on her face. Suddenly, and without warning, the room filled with a cool, billowy mist that dissolved Anders' force field and revived Fiona.

Brand turned to the door to see Alistair with his arms outstretched, wearing a satisfied half-smile. _He hasn't done this in a while_. The cleansing aura neutralized all magic in the area and it had the beneficial side-effect of turning the air momentarily acrid. If someone wasn't expecting it, one wrong breath could make a throat feel coated in acid.

Fortunately, Penelope wasn't expecting it and fell to her knees gagging. She didn't notice Brand vault from her seat and neatly sidestep a still dazed Fiona. Within seconds, the chambermaid was on her back, Brand's boot resting on her chest. The scalpel lay out of reach; she was helpless at the Warden-Commander's discretion.

It was tempting to hurt her, to press down with unnecessary force. Brand remembered the stomach-churning panic when she saw Anders bleeding and unconscious. With that image in mind, it would be exceptionally easy to take a small amount of revenge.

Instead, she pulled her foot away and snatched the scalpel from the floor. Fiona struggled to find her balance, Oghren offering his gauntleted hand. Anders stood next to the bed watching Brand and his expression was one of distinct displeasure. As soon as she was within range, he caught her elbow.

"_'Kill me'_?" He hissed this. "Three _times_ you said it."

Her eyebrow shot up, "Oh? I wasn't keeping track. Good thing I told you to listen, I'll want to record that in my journal."

This elicited a scowl and Anders withdrew his hand. She almost apologized, but then remembered that, right then, she was his _Commander_ and not his _lover_. The _sorry_ died on her lips.

Garavel, Oghren and Nathaniel went to work untying Shona and Blythe, using the same ropes to bind a still-unconscious Laure and an openly seething Penelope. Fiona settled on the slab in the middle of the infirmary, looking equal parts nauseous, angry and confused. Her apprentices buzzed around her but she seemed to want nothing more than a fade from existence.

Alistair remained behind Anders in the doorway, Bryce pressed between him and the doorframe, his green eyes shadowed with worry. Brand stepped past both men to gather her son into her arms, carrying him to the hallway.

"Is Fiona hurt?" his head rested against her shoulder.

"No dear, Fiona's fine."

"Why did Oghren hit Laure? Did she annoy him?"

"No, no. We don't hit people who annoy us."

"Oh," he moved so he could look at her, his small hands swiped at bleary eyes. "I'm tired, Brand. I want to see Pounce and sleep."

Only _her_ son could witness magic, a show of templar skill, and a woman being dispatched at the end of a war axe and want to go right to bed. It took a _lot_ to impress Bryce Guerrin.

"Let me talk to Laure and Penelope for just a few minutes, and then we'll go back upstairs, ok? I need you to be quiet, though. Would you like for Fiona or Anders to sit out here with you?"

"Can _you _do it?" he tucked his chin down and nestled against her neck. It was a sign of how he'd absorbed the events of the day; if he wasn't scared for _her_ well-being, he'd have asked for Anders in a heartbeat. She didn't respond, rubbing her hand along his back in an attempt to sooth his nerves, to reassure him that everything was fine.

Brand turned towards the infirmary and Anders was _right there_ making her suddenly wish that she wasn't his Commander, so he could catch them both in his arms. Bryce might not truly understand the meaning of _hurt_ but he knew _worry_ and _loss_ far better than was right for a child of his age and sometimes it was hard for her console him on her own without giving in to it herself.

But, even though Anders couldn't hold _her_, Bryce went to him without protest and Brand stayed close for a few moments, stealing vicarious comfort. Before she returned to the infirmary, she stretched up to Anders' ear to whisper something she should have said several minutes ago.

"I'm sorry," and then a long pause. "I'm glad that you listened."

And she left him to deal with the women who'd almost succeeded in destroying her life.

* * *

It didn't take long.

Neither Penelope or Laure would say much. All Brand could get either to admit was that things were supposed to go much smoother than they did. Penelope had the contract to kill them and Laure was only there to gather information and offer support, to take care of anything Penelope missed.

"...and she missed _everything_," Laure glared at the woman next to her. Penelope bowed a little under the insult.

Garavel was at the end of his patience, which was an admittedly short trip.

"So let me clarify this. You," he pointed to Penelope, "were supposed to kill the Commander, her son and the prisoner from Amaranthine. All you ended up doing was stabbing _Anders_ and blowing up our staircase."

Penelope's mouth pressed into a hard line and she remained silent. Garavel let out an annoyed noise and turned to Laure.

"And when she failed to fulfill her duties, that's when you attempted to poison the Commander, her son and the prisoner from Amaranthine. Correct?"

"_What?_" This was Anders, who'd been hanging in the doorway, Bryce asleep against his chest. "You were _poisoned_?"

"_Attempted_," Brand shrugged. "Let's not give them _that_ credit. Alistair caught it before we could ingest anything."

Anders looked torn between frustration and gratitude. Brand noticed his fingers tighten reflexively against Bryce, as if affirming that the child was really in his arms, as if saying a silent _thank you for not being dead_.

"Who sent you?" Brand held no illusions that this question would be answered, but she would be remiss if she didn't at least _try_. Alistair said that the poison was a Crow concoction. "Are the two of you Crows?"

The only response she got was silence.

"Commander, if they're not going to tell us under interrogation, we might have to resort to _other_ means..." Garavel knew that this would not sit well with Brand.

"We will absolutely not resort to _other_ means," she could not believe that he would bring this up. "You're an ass, you know that?"

Garavel frowned, but didn't appear to be insulted. "I'm an _ass_? For what? For trying to figure out who tried to kill you and your child?"

"You're just an ass. But you know that I absolutely will not tolerate torture in the Vigil. _No_ information is worth lowering oneself to that," Brand closed her eyes and thought of Ser Cauthrien. _Torture is an ugly business, but sometimes it's the only way to learn what your enemy intends. And it is much harder to tell who the enemy is when all of them look like you_

"I am not..." she shot a quick glance at Nathaniel, who was as uncomfortable about the topic of this discussion as she. "I am _not_ going to compromise myself on this. They can go to the prison for now. I'll have their rooms searched. If we're lucky, maybe we can find a name. Someone we can contact, someone who might be interested in their failure."

Brand knew from her experiences with the Crows that a failed assassination contract was not taken lightly by the organization that held the responsibility. Zevran had been tracked down at least twice after he joined her. She could tell from Laure's reaction that the woman would rather be strung up than collected.

"Did you _really_ think that it would be _that_ easy to kill the Commander of the Grey? That _two_ of you could pull it off?" Nathaniel had been silently fuming for most of the evening, and this outburst caught them all by surprise. Laure shot Penelope a look that cautioned _this is as much a trap as anything_ and Brand almost told Howe that, were it not for Anders' tongue and Alistair's intervention, the two of them would have pulled it off..._twice_.

"Garavel, you and Nathaniel escort these women to the prison. We'll need two men on them at all times. Nate, once they're secure I want you to get Sigrun, Remiah and Lemmy and search Laure and Penelope's quarters. Between the four of you, I'm certain you know what to look for," giving orders seemed smarter than pointing out her own dumb luck, and Brand waited for the two men to leave before she turned to Oghren. The dwarf had been uncharacteristically silent throughout their brief conversation with the would-be assassins. In the yard, Brand had felt a tidal wave of guilt for not telling her Co-Commander, her oldest comrade at the Vigil, about Alistair. He'd been angry then. Now he was just resigned.

"I know what you're going to say," his brows shifted and he could barely meet her eyes. "You're going to apologize for leaving me out of the loop, and then you're going to thank me for saving your arse. Well, you don't have to bother. I can see why you did it, and I know that you're sorry _and_ you're grateful. I'm more concerned by something else..."

"What's that?" Brand was deeply relieved that Oghren could, on occasion, be the most gracious man she'd ever known.

"Well, do you remember what we talked about yesterday morning? About a certain someone and their involvement with a certain scheme?" Oghren's olive colored eyes were uneasy. "Don't you think that this attempt could possibly implicate him?"

_Of course_, Brand had thought this about ten times since Alistair had uttered the word _Crow_. Zevran's visit had set off a chain of events that seemed impeccably timed, if not fail- proof. But the idea of her Zevran _always with the my Zevran_ turning on her caused almost physical discomfort. He'd never do anything that would endanger her life, or Bryce's. All she could say to Oghren was that: "_Never_."

Those two syllables seemed to effectively shut down everyone's desire for conversation. Fiona disappeared to a back room and Oghren shuffled out with not even a second glance at Alistair.

Brand followed, grabbing her cloak and daggers. She was limping again, the muscles in her thigh knotty from overuse and tension. Anders would need to look at it before they went to sleep that evening, and it was _so_ sore that not even the potential for post-examination pleasure could improve her mood.

Brand took a short detour by the main hall, the door to which was guarded by a very bored Sigrun.

"Oh, _Commander_. Am I glad to see you," Sigrun bounced on the balls of her feet, less from excitement and more from having been ordered to stand in one place for a given amount of time. "Varel needs you in the yard. A messenger just arrived."

"A messenger? From Amaranthine?" this might be worthwhile, perhaps a follow-up on Eamon's death. Sigrun shook her head, the braids woven throughout her dark hair fanned when she did this.

"No, Remiah said he was from Highever. One of the teryn's personal riders."

With an almost audible whoosh, Brand remembered the letter she'd been reading earlier, when Alistair interrupted to save her life. _I need to speak to you soon, there are matters of import and concern that __must __be addressed..._

"Andraste's ass, this can't be good. You should come with us, Nate will need to see you about a task I have for you."

"Anything that gets me away from that door. There is nothing in this _world_ more dull that watching a _door_..." Sigrun continued chattering, and Brand was grateful for the cheerful little distraction.

The messenger waited by the well, surrounded by several guards and Varel, whose demeanor suggested that he needed a nap almost as much as Bryce had.

"Commander Cousland!" The messenger, clad in leather riding gear and wearing a tunic embroidered with the Cousland family crest, stepped forward and lowered his head in a respectful greeting. His forehead and cheeks were marked with delicately scrolled lines and Brand recognized the young dalish _his name is Artis or Achim or Afam or something beginning with an A_ from her last trip to see her brother.

"Stand down men, I can verify that this elf is in the employ of the Teryn of Highever," Brand paused so the soldiers could back off and give her room to speak freely. When only Varel remained close, she returned to the messenger with a tight smile. "What news do you bear from my brother...Akram, is it?"

"Afam, my lady," he seemed nonetheless pleased that she was even close. "And I was sent to summon you. Teryn Fergus has deemed a meeting between himself and the Arlessa of Amaranthine a dire necessity."

And this was no less than Brand had expected.

"That _is_ his right. Return to Fergus immediately and tell him that I will set out at dawn tomorrow," there was no hesitance in Brand's response and Varel made a disapproving sound, something that normally he'd keep to himself. She checked him, eyebrow raised in amusement at his uncharacteristic slip. "Do you have a problem with this, Seneschal?"

"No, Commander. It's just...dawn tomorrow isn't that far off. You'll have to assemble your traveling party, prepare the horses, collect rations..." Varel only had excuses. He was _afraid_, afraid that if things could go so wrong under his nose then only the Maker knew what could happen with his Arlessa hundreds of miles away.

"My traveling party is _already_ assembled, and the stable hands can get the horses and carriage ready overnight and rest tomorrow. This isn't a mission, Varel. I'm just traveling to visit my brother. We had less time to prepare to march from Redcliffe to Denerim, and that involved entire _armies_."

"So how many should Teryna Melisande be expecting?" Afam appeared visibly relieved that she'd responded so positively, and quickly, too.

Brand took a mental count.

"One driver, a child and three adults."

"You won't need scouts?" Varel wasn't going to let her get away with such minimal protection.

"Five adults," Anders cleared his throat behind her. Melis would be _ecstatic_. "And a cat, of course."

"Excellent, I will return to Highever at once, my lady. Teryn Fergus will be most pleased by this news," Afam bowed again and took off towards the gate at a run. Brand would normally offer food and a chance to rest, but she knew that Afam would only refuse the gesture. Fergus told her last time she saw him that he lived on air alone and never slept.

The rest of the arrangements fell easily into place. Varel would give orders for the carriage to be prepared and for stewards to be readied to help load. Brand intercepted Nathaniel to inform him that he and Sigrun would be riding ahead of them. There flickered something almost grateful in his cool eyes. He was _less _thrilled when she told him that Alistair and Bryce had spent some time in his room.

"We didn't break anything. Or steal anything," Alistair's tone was utterly sardonic. "Frankly, when I saw your collection of..." he made a stabbing gesture, "I lost every bit of my desire to upset you in any way."

"Who _are_ you?" Sigrun was at Brand's elbow. Brand glanced back at Alistair and shrugged. Keeping his identity a secret from her fellow Wardens seemed patently silly at this point.

"My name is Alistair," his voice caught like this was unfamiliar territory for him. And then his tone turned dangerous, and he became the Alistair who taunted Brand about her sexual prowess."I'm an old..._friend_ of Brand's."

Anders, just ahead of Brand and still carrying Bryce, glared back at Alistair, his brows lowered dangerously. He knew _exactly_ what the other man was trying to do.

Alistair met the mage's gaze and smiled arrogantly but didn't elaborate. Sigrun, catching the exchanged hostility, backed down from her prying, the party traveling in silence until they reached Brand's apartment.

They split from there, Anders putting Bryce to bed and then leaving to pack along with Nathaniel and Sigrun. Brand ushered Alistair to his room and he was still in a..._mocking_ mood.

"What is your _problem_?" she kept to the doorway, arms crossed and shoulders forward. It was a guarded stance, and she hoped it telegraphed how very off-putting she found him. He took his position at the foot of the bed, back against the wall.

"I apologize, _Commander_. I seem to have forgotten how to talk to strangers who would hate me if they had any idea who I really was," his eye turned upwards. "And frankly I find them all a little.._strange_. Not that I'm surprised, you always had a tendency to collect the weird ones."

"I hope you're not exempting yourself from that."

Alistair didn't respond, choosing to stare ahead and run his knuckles along his unmarred jaw line. From this side, he looked shockingly normal. Still too thin, still too covered with hair that really needed to be eradicated, but still very much Alistair. There was a handsome man there, if only his expression wasn't so quick to turn ugly and his tone caustic.

"No, I'm not," this was said quietly. "When did the dwarf become a Warden? And _why_?"

"Oghren decided to join when he found out that I would be named Warden-Commander. He was doing quite well for himself in the army; he'd gotten married and had a baby. That wouldn't do, of course, so he had to ruin it by taking the Joining and leaving Felsi and Delyn on their own."

"Oghren has a child? _Oghren_? A _father_?" Alistair was so incredibly skeptical of this.

"It's not _that_ strange, he's actually quite doting when Felsi brings her by and he writes her letters all the time. She's five now and _incredibly_ cute," Brand couldn't help but smile. The last time Delyn was at the Vigil, Bryce had declared himself in love. She punched him in the arm and he was smitten for the rest of her visit. "He's even stopped drinking as much. He has a few pints on wage day, but that's it. I named him my Co-Commander after Teagan died, and he takes the responsibility quite seriously."

"You sound proud," Alistair was almost chastened, and looked exhausted. She wasn't going to push him further.

"We'll need to get up well before dawn tomorrow," Brand heard her apartment door open and close, signaling Anders' return. "I'll take you to the armory before we go and you can pick out a new metal suit and some weapons, and I'm sure Anders will have more than enough packed for the both of you."

"Great, I love wearing another man's smallclothes," Alistair sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, twisting the tips so that it stood on end. It was a gesture of acceptance and defeat. His whole aura was of defeat.

"Alistair?" Brand stepped forward and lowered her voice, "I am grateful for what you did today, extraordinarily so. You saved my life, and probably Bryce's life as well. And you helped me manage two crises, when you didn't have to. I don't know if Anders can bring himself to thank you, but I have no doubt that he appreciates you helping him out in the yard. So...thanks."

And he didn't respond for a long time, his face still, his hands motionless on his knees.

"Your son is just like you," this was almost a whisper. "I wasn't expecting it, to be honest. I didn't want him to see anything ugly, and that's why I defended the mage."

"For Bryce?"

Alistair remained silent and she withdrew after a few minutes without saying another word. She couldn't even _begin _to imagine the things he was thinking about at that moment. His face had grown so dark, she knew she didn't want to.

* * *

Anders was waiting on her bed and she could tell by the presence of his component bag that her leg would be the primary focus...at least at first. His expression was unreadable as she approached, stopping just in front of him. She lifted the hem of her blouse and began to undo the laces of her pants, but he caught her hands, holding them away so he could press his mouth to exposed stomach, tracing figures with his tongue as he tugged indolently at the laces himself, taking his time inching the loosened waistband down her hips.

And she prayed that he would continue working his way downward but, before she could express this desire, he was maneuvering her onto the bed, his focus now turned to the bandage on her leg, which was mottled with maroon specks.

"Hopefully, you didn't pull your stitches," he carefully unwrapped the bandages and frowned. "I don't see anything too obvious, you just overexerted yourself this afternoon. I'll have to douse you, though."

"Dammit," she braced herself against the sting and remained still while he cleaned and redressed her thigh and then cautiously pulled her pants back up. _Dammit_. She almost expected him to run away; there was something newly cagey about his demeanor. She slowly sat up, "I'll ask you what I asked Alistair; what is your problem?"

And Anders took the question head on, just as Alistair had.

"I want you," he turned sideways on the bed, so he could lean against the headboard and study her in profile. It also put her out of easy reach. "I want you _now_ and in the worst way possible; any way I can have you, any way I can take you."

The way he said _that_ was possibly more arousing than his mouth at her stomach or his tongue at her throat.

"That's not a problem from where _I'm_ sitting," she expected a smile when she said this, a small acknowledgement of her lack of self-preservation. Instead he remained serious.

"I know about the arrangements you made with Anora," his voice was remarkably flat. "Oghren let it slip today, and I played along like I had been told. But I hadn't. And for how long?"

Brand closed her eyes as the room tilted around her. Fiona had warned her this might happen, and Fiona had a terrible tendency to be _right_. Her fingertips pressed together and she couldn't look at him.

"Four months," and she might as well have said four years because it just sounded _horrible_. "And I only told Oghren because he'd be in line to become Arl. And I told Varel because he's the seneschal and _he_ told Fiona...but that's it. I only told those who needed to know."

That was _also_ about the worst thing she could say.

"Were you planning on sharing this with those of us who merely lurk on the outskirts of your life, or was I going to wake up one morning to find you gone? Or, better yet, go to get Bryce and see his room bare like he never existed at all?"

"I was going to tell you tonight, Anders. I was going to wait until after dinner, but things happened and dinner didn't and _dammit_," she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes until her vision turned scarlet.

"You should have told me sooner. I know I have no say in these things but... I care about Bryce, I heard what you said to Laure and it's _true_. But you also have to know how I feel about _you_, how I've _felt_ about you. Even four months ago, you had to have _some_ awareness."

"Did I?" There was a small hitch in her voice. "I didn't, actually. That's something I couldn't allow myself to even consider, something that had to be so out of the bounds of probability that I couldn't even allow myself to _imagine_ it."

"What does that even _mean_?" He was genuinely frustrated now.

"It means that I had to force myself to _not_ see you that way, even if I wanted to. When I _tentatively_ accepted Anora's offer, I was in the same frame of mind as I had been when I accepted Teagan's proposal."

"Which was?"

"That it was the best I could hope for, given the circumstances."

"And now?" He leaned forward, his eyes betraying no small amount of anticipation.

She tried to smile, "It depends. How mad _are_ you?"

"Actually, I'm not mad," _this_ was true. "I'm hurt, and I'm unbelievably frustrated, in about every sense of the word. I just...want you." He said it so plainly. The corners of his mouth turned down, his eyes softly forlorn; it made her ache. "I know there's no place for an apostate in your life as the mother of the future king. No matter _what_ happens between us now, I lose you and Bryce eventually."

"_No_," this came out with more force than she intended. "No, we're not going to talk about this anymore. Nobody is going to lose anybody."

"And what do you plan on doing? Waging a one woman campaign against the Chantry?"

"I'm telling Anora _no_. This is what _she_ wanted anyway, to placate the nobility. I'm not...I'm not going to do this again. She has her stupid throne and she can make her own sacrifices to keep it," Brand stood and went to her armoire, pulling out clothing for their upcoming trip. Anders watched her from her bed, his face once again inscrutable.

"What did she offer you?" He was on his feet, moving towards her.

Brand pulled out her jewelry box and slid Loghain's locket into her pack before answering, "She offered me anything I wanted. Any title, any position, any estate. In addition to Bryce's _everything_, of course. I wouldn't have to worry about him being taken care of should I be killed."

She felt a hand on her waist and Anders pressed against her back, his breath hot on her neck, "You would give up power, comfort and security just to be with me?"

Brand turned and he held on tightly, "None of that means _anything_ if you're miserable."

"Then I will make it my sworn duty to ensure that you are at _least_ un-miserable. But I can't promise that I won't screw up and accidentally make you, Maker forbid, _happy_. So I apologize in advance for that," he inclined his head to kiss her and she pushed back against him, willing an increase in intensity. There was a second when she thought he might give in, when the day would catch up with him and _win_, but then they both heard it...

"Braa-aaand!"

"Oof," Anders pulled away, cocking his head in the direction of Bryce's room. "One of these days, I'm going to have to talk to him about _timing_."

Brand caught his elbow, and guided him towards the door, "We should go to sleep, anyway. There's a lot to get done before we leave."

"Are you kicking me out?"

"Not at all, I..." she looked vaguely nervous. "I'm going to stay with Bryce, I think. Is that ok?"

Anders nodded, "I'll be there in a bit, I need to do something first."

Brand slid into her son's room and Anders went back to his component bag. His head was feeling very light after a day that was mostly amazing but partially...well, even the terrible parts had ended up being amazing in their own way, but the potent lyrium potion he threw back didn't help the mild dizziness at _all_, and the second dose made him feel like the world had gone right side down.

He hurried across the hallway and knocked on Alistair's door before the lyrium could render him fully unable to work his limbs and, even after only a few seconds, his _hearing_ was going wrong. Alistair let him in and seemed beyond annoyed that it was the _mage_, and he looked positively _murderous_ when Anders' hand clumsily cupped his cheek.

But he didn't kill him _or_ pull away and Anders closed his eyes to concentrate on focusing every bit of his power on the other man's face. Blue light flared and held sustained for several long moments and Alistair remained motionless.

When Anders finished, as drained as a mage could be and still keep on his feet, Alistair's battered face looked almost completely normal. There was still some faint bruising and a couple of scabs, but he was far from the monster he'd been just minutes ago. He touched his cheek tentatively, opening and closing his mouth a few times to test his jaw. Even his eye was working again, slightly bloodshot but no longer swollen shut.

Anders reeled against the door frame, his stomach churning from the combined efforts of the lyrium and pushing himself too far.

"That was for saving them," his mouth was impossibly dry. "I'm not very good at _gratitude_, so I thought I'd go with something a little more tangible instead."

That was all he would say, rolling himself back out along the edges of the foyer and down to Bryce's room, where Brand was already asleep with her son nestled against her stomach and _Pounce_ curled against _Bryce's_ stomach. Anders thought briefly about settling between Brand and a wall, or balancing himself on the front edge of the bed so they formed a protective fort around the child. But each of those things felt like a Huge Step and he wasn't entirely comfortable doing something like that without permission.

The best solution was to pull up his favorite chair, positioning it so he could sprawl and touch Brand's cheek or hand whenever he wanted to. He hadn't forgotten the thrill of being able to just _do_ that and he spent the next hour drifting off, only to will himself awake so his fingers could trace along her brow line or draw across her knuckles.

_Nobody is going to lose anybody._

And he wasn't a _total_ foolish optimist; the day had enough _bad_ to convince himself that no matter how amazing the amazing moments had been, there were still stabbings and near-poisonings and Brand almost leaving. His final thought before he finally gave in to sleep was this:

_I just hope that's a choice _you_ get to make._


	20. Free

Like his brain was shattered glass, there were shards _everywhere_: of outrage, of questions, of words being spoken over him like he was a dead man _and I am_. But the first fully-formed thought Alistair had as he stumbled away from the palace and through the teeming streets of Denerim was this:

_Now I'm free._

He wasn't a templar, not bound to the Chantry, not addicted to lyrium, not avowed and doomed to a life of mage hunting or towers or celibacy.

There was no chance that he'd _ever_ become king, his own growing comfort with _that_ notion shoved somewhere deep within him, well past the hundreds of _other_ things he'd shoved down since he left the Landsmeet.

As he wouldn't be allowed anywhere _near_ that crown, he was no longer engaged to Anora, which..._awesome_. It struck him as almost funny how so few _words_ separated their betrothal and his death at her command. Only Brand's _decision_ and..._no, _not_ Brand._

And he _definitely_ wasn't a Grey Warden. This made him _laugh_, a mad giggle that drew the attention of a group of women walking ahead of him. Before, they might have looked at him and seen a handsome young man of burgeoning confidence. They'd catch the gleam of purpose in his dark eyes and the small smile that curved his lips because, Maker knows, he was probably thinking about _her_. That day, they saw only a staggering shell of someone who might have been _someone_, but was now nothing.

_Not nothing..._free_._

The laughter died on his lips and he fell still in the middle of the street, people shouldering past him with annoyed grunts and angry sneers until they worked into a groove _around_ him, like water dodging a rock in midstream.

For a second, he panicked and looked back from where he came. The palace was barely visible in the distance. He imagined what would happen if he returned, dirt road churning beneath his boots as he_ literally_ ran for his life. He could join Eamon's army, he could maybe _not_ disappear.

But he was already gone. It had only been...less than an hour, probably, and he was an indistinct shadow on the streets of Denerim, an obstacle that the masses had already learned to circumvent with as little thought as it took to blink.

And he could have been king.

And he could have been _loved_.

And now he was neither but, blast it all, he was _free_.

* * *

His armor sold for a few gold and the amulet he wore netted nearly as much. It had been a gift from some shade that looked like Teryn Cousland _maybe_. He'd never met Teryn Cousland, not that he could remember. It might have looked nothing like the man, but _she'd_ been convinced, tears shining in her eyes as she acknowledged that it was a spirit and not her dead father. But it had rattled her, and then he remembered her mouth needful against his later that night, his hand fumbling at her breast and the incredibly _nice_ things she whispered as she pulled him into her for the first time.

He awoke with a start, the room around him full of particles that made it hard to discern things like walls and ceilings and where was he in relation to those. His head throbbed from dehydration, his stomach was sour with a lack of food and he felt an unpleasant stickiness in his smallclothes. Instead of cleaning himself off in a basin that he intuited must exist _somewhere_ beyond the dust motes and dusk, he rolled over and returned to sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes, accustomed to the headache, he managed to pull himself into a sitting position on the edge of a bed that sagged beneath his weight. There was someone in his room, he heard the familiar clatter of splintmail and he tried to focus on the small window across from him, the warped pane allowing only the faintest amount of moonlight to spill, pool and illuminate a face that didn't need light to be seen.

"What are you _doing_ here?" He buried his face in his hands, uncertain whether the loathing that had risen to his throat was meant for himself or for her.

"You called me, remember? That's the only way I can come," she moved to her knees and started crawling towards him. "Well, not the _only_ way."

And he had no idea how it happened, but she was on top of him, he could feel her armor biting his bare chest, his thighs scraping against her leg guards as she placed one knee between them. Unconsciously, he pushed his head up, thinking that a kiss _a kiss_ could wake him from this nightmare and maybe then he'd be beside her in a familiar room or tent and she'd be herself again, and not the woman who'd break his heart _and in front of people_.

But she avoided his offered mouth and laughed, a low, mocking noise.

"What am I supposed to do with _that_?"

As if were a dirty sock and not his _love_.

She disappeared, and he was left shivering on his bed, tears spilling across his cheeks. On the nightstand there was a bottle of whiskey, dirty amber filth that the drunkest drunk would avoid as poison. And he had bought it merely as some misguided gesture of defiance, but it was near his hand so he pulled the cork stopper, tilted it back and let it destroy his throat and soak his bones until he was unable lift his eyelids, let alone see the ghost woman who came and went but never _truly_ left the edges of his vision or his dreams.

* * *

He was getting angry. He'd been getting angry for almost a week, as the city filled with refugees seeking placement on fleeing ships. This tavern had been a _sanctuary_ for him since...since he'd arrived, and now there was noise and families and children that got between him and the bar. He'd not been drinking _that_ much, watching people mostly, but the crowds forced him to start buying a bottle to take back to his room where he'd make a tent of his covers and drink until he fell unconscious against the wall, or headboard, or stretched between bed and floor.

And that wasn't healthy in the _slightest_.

But tonight he couldn't even get to his room because there was a huddled mass of elven women, displaced servants left homeless when Loghain's forces burnt their lord's hold to the ground. He must have maintained some vestiges of respectability because they begged him for money so they could try again somewhere else. They'd lost _everything_ in the civil war.

"I know who you should see about _that_," his voice was becoming rougher, colder. "Her name is Brandelyn Cousland, and she's tall, brunette and has the most amazing ..."

That's when someone _punched_ him, recognizing the name of The Hero and somehow she'd become on par with Andraste or _something_ because he woke up in a strange bed, in a smaller room, and he didn't know where his belongings had run off to.

Or maybe he'd switched rooms, or this was a different inn entirely. He had no _idea_ anymore.

But he did have anger, if he drank enough. He hadn't been big on drinking before. He'd gotten drunk once somewhere between Lothering and the Circle Tower, grief catching him on an empty stomach and with a bottle of wine in his pack. He'd stumbled around camp until he found Brand keeping watch and then he kissed her _like a fool_, immediately falling down in a fret that she'd never let him kiss her again, that he'd done something _terrible_ because she didn't even know he wanted _that_ in the first place. And that was the first step, wasn't it? Telling?

_It's ok, Alistair. Just say the word, and I'll forget it ever happened._

_The word…heh. You are so _pale_, did you know that? Like moonlight or milk or...fish bellies._

…_I'm going to have to drag you back to camp before you really get yourself into it, aren't I?_

But that was then, when the sorrow he felt behind his beast plate gave way to quiet ebullience at the sight of a woman he'd never thought could even exist. She had clung to him for comfort, had held _him_ in kind. To the other they were need and needed, both of them together burdened and unburdened as armor fell away and they folded themselves into battle-bruised arms that held back nightmares and vast amounts of _loneliness_.

Then she betrayed him, had looked him in the _eye_ and chose someone else, chose a traitor and _Maker_, how could she _do_ that to him? Had she never actually _cared_?

Despite this, unless he was drunk, he _ached_ for her; he wished he could force himself into some semblance of respectability and track her down. Find out what he had done wrong, how she had went from laughing in his arms to casting him off like he was nothing more than dirty clothes _and so quickly_.

_Or maybe she didn't cast _you_ off at all, maybe _you_ should have stayed..._

She _had_ to have known it would end up like _this_, that he'd fall apart on his own. He never had a _family_ before, but he always had a purpose, _learning_ or _fighting_, something that made him feel like _somebody_ would miss him if he disappeared completely. But nobody came for him. It had been two weeks, maybe, and no one had shown up to claim a bastard prince who walked out on his country.

One night he almost emerged from his stupor with the _will_. Two blousy women were holding each other up and talking about the Hero heading to Redcliffe and _that_ was home, and _she_ was home, and the _Grey Wardens_ were...

Right then, he was sick of being free. He wanted to feel like a man with a purpose. Or a man who might one day _find_ a purpose. Or a man who was _anything_ besides dust motes and empty bottles and so much regret.

Then one of the women breathed the word _Loghain_ and it was too much. He thought of Duncan, of sadly optimistic Cailan, of men who'd teased him _affectionately_, men who'd called _him_ brother.

Loghain should have seen justice for what he did to them, and he _didn't_. And maybe Brand felt trapped, but she _wasn't_, _he_ offered her a way out, too. He offered to take on the decision and she'd still...

_But what if she dies because you aren't there? What if _Loghain_ saves her?_

And his heart twisted so painfully that he cried out, the women fumbling to awareness long enough to glare and wander away from the eavesdropping weirdo. With them gone, he bought a bottle of whiskey _to_ _just make it stop_.

He was _supposed_ to hate her, so he drank until he did.

* * *

The horde approached Denerim.

Word came in from the streets, spilling into the dingy tavern. There were sparks of panic in the eyes of those with no life worth losing, those who heard the doomsayers on the corners, noticed a shift in the wind and got caught up in thinking they might want to live.

Alistair didn't need doomsayers _or_ the panicked. He had his nightmares, his blood. He woke one night with fire in his veins, his heart pumping flame. He screamed into darkness before falling back against his bed to spend the next several hours feeling every inch of him pulling, itching and yearning towards that which most people would die to avoid.

The next night he dreamed the Archdemon, glittering violet under the moon, starlight tracing down its neck as it spoke to the mass of darkspawn that teemed around it, ocean vast and ever surging. They were moving like an apocalyptic shadow across the Bannorn, coming to Denerim while Brand trekked back to Redcliffe.

_Ferelden will fall._ This thought lured him from his bed, to a window that only showed the window of the building across the alleyway. (Had he _really_ expected to see the world turned to ash from this stinky little box?)

His father had been king of this country, had been called Maric the Savior. Maric the Savior had never bothered to give a damn about his own _son_, but he'd probably throw his life away a thousand times for _Ferelden_.

And what _of_ his son? Not his good son, (the Coddled, the King, the Dead in the Name of Glory) but his other son (the Abandoned, the Bastard, the One Not Worth the Sweat on His Skin)? _That_ guy could go either way, really. It hadn't been so long, his muscles wouldn't have forgotten years of sword training and the endless battle echo that had been this past year. He could fight, could greet the horde at the gates to the city. Maybe he'd even run out to meet Brand, and find himself someplace neutral, where he didn't hate her nor want her. _They_ could be resolved, and they could work together long enough to end the Blight.

He wouldn't be The Hero (he was _never_ meant for that) but he wouldn't be The Forgotten, either.

Or he could join the _other_ horde, the people fleeing for their lives. _Ferelden is lost_, their eyes lingering over their country only long enough to make certain that they weren't leaving any _stuff_ behind. He could take his freedom someplace else, where he wasn't the unacknowledged and unwanted son of a hero who probably could have been a little more _heroic_ when it came to the consequences of his indiscretions.

(He had no idea when his ire turned to _Maric_, but it seemed to fit handily with the theme of people who'd let him down.)

For a moment, he chose the higher calling. It was a surge of confidence where confidence had been _totally absent_, conviction that life would not get the better of him _this_ time.

That lasted about five minutes.

Then the realization that he had no armor, no weapons and less than a sovereign to his name made him rethink the whole storming back to duty plan. It was what he _wanted_ to do (sort of) and what he _should_ do (definitely) but the thought of meeting the darkspawn horde in his dingy shirt and pants and armed with only a pair of broken whiskey bottles?

_That_ was laughable. And, a true mark of how much he'd slipped these past few weeks, he'd rather just walk away completely then see their faces and what they _really_ thought of him. Brand would have her aura of conqueror, eyes determined beyond anything Alistair had ever witnessed, and Loghain would be at her side, where Alistair belonged _more than anyplace else in the world_.

The image tore at him like a live thing with fangs and claws. It made him realize, _finally_, that there was no safe place for him here in Ferelden. He'd announced it at the Landsmeet, and now it would happen. He began tossing his meager belongings in his stained canvas pack.

Only moments before, he'd been packing in anticipation of his triumphant return from oblivion. Now he packed for exile.

* * *

He chose the Rivaini ship because the man taking coin for passage reminded him of Duncan.

The docks were creaking beneath his boots, pitching under the collective weight of hundreds of distraught Fereldans seeking safe passage from the city before it fell to the darkspawn. They'd heard stories of what happened to those who survived Ostagar, to those who couldn't evacuate Lothering. Nobody _wants_ to be eaten, or dragged underground, or strewn about as macabre trophies, so they parted with their life savings for the chance to be crammed into merchant vessels that would take them someplace that was _probably_ safe.

Unless the Grey Wardens failed, in which case their coin would be better spent on _anything_ that could make their final hours bearable. Good drink, good food, good company.

_Unless the Grey Wardens failed_. Alistair was an optimist for thinking that was the _unlikely_ outcome. Blights weren't ended by three Grey Wardens and a decimated army._ But _you've_ seen the look on Brand's face when she wants something done. Maybe she'll just frustrate the Archdemon into submission and be forever known as the Grey Warden who out-stubborned the fifth Blight._

Waiting in line was difficult; he could feel the steady gnaw of _this decision is forever_ at the back of his brain. He'd arrived sober, not wanting to end up accidentally selling himself into slavery or anything comparably unpleasant, and it was starting to feel less like a _decision_ and more like _cowardice_. Those around him were fleeing because the darkspawn were an enemy they could not hope to defeat. _He_ didn't have that excuse, he only had hurt, humiliation and an overwhelming desire to hand off his fifty silver and be ushered onboard a ship by a man who was looking less like Duncan the closer he got to him.

"That'll be one sovereign," the man's voice was flat, his eyes like chipped onyx. He wore his ebony hair chin-length and it clung close to his leathery cheeks. Even at a respectable distance, Alistair could detect the smell of saltwater, fish and alcohol.

"A _sovereign_? I thought it was fifty silver," Alistair shook his money pouch, the coins spilling carelessly into his hand. "I think I only have seventy-five."

"Then you don't have a place on this vessel," it wasn't even a proper dismissal, the man turning immediately to the family behind Alistair, demanding a sovereign per head. Before they could bemoan the unfairness of this price, Alistair grabbed the man's arm.

He didn't seem to like _that_ very much.

"Sir, please. I have to take this boat..." and Alistair almost told him who he was, but realized that would be the _height_ of foolishness, since someone might get it in their head to hold him for ransom and wouldn't that be _hilarious_. _What happened to a person held for ransom if nobody showed up with the money? How embarrassing would _that _be?_

The Rivaini stared pointedly at Alistair's fingers still grasping his arm, "I should hope you do. But you are not the only one...as you can see." Alistair refused to look at the crowds around him, the chorus of desperation was enough confirmation that this man spoke truthfully. "That means I can charge as much as I want. _You_ cannot pay? Someone else can, and _will_."

With a shake and a pressing of lips that clearly said _you're fortunate that I didn't throw you off the dock_, the man moved on.

And if _this_ wasn't a sign, Alistair didn't know what _was_. He turned on the spot, uncertain how to navigate his way through the mobs and back off the docks.

That's when he saw a familiar face standing at the top of one of the city's retaining walls. Even a hundred yards away, Alistair would recognize _this_ man.

_You know you have to become king _just_ so you can give Sergeant Kylon a promotion, don't you?_

_Your political side is coming out now, is it? Why would I promote him; because _you_ think he's so witty and _he_ thinks you're pretty?_

_He never said I was pretty, I just...like him, is all. He _supports_ us, that's a good thing, isn't it? Shouldn't we reward those who put their necks out for us? _

The older man was _obviously_ watching him, and Alistair wondered for a wild second if Brand hadn't sent him. Then he realized that, this being Denerim, he was most likely acting under Anora's command. He'd probably been asked to tail Alistair, to make certain he didn't do anything stupid and/or treasonous and to confirm with the queen if he actually kept his word to leave.

_I tried to leave_, the words were slick with anguish even in his head. _I tried to leave and this..._ass_ wouldn't take my money._

"Hey, _blondie_," it sounded like someone who had been trying to get another's attention for almost too long. "_You_, guy with the not enough silver."

Alistair whipped around to see that a second Duncan-esque character had joined the first, and this one had the light of opportunism in his dark eyes. He felt his brows go up in acknowledgement.

"Can you handle a sword?"

A sword? He thought over the past several years when he spent more time _with_ a sword in his hand than he did _without_. He dreamt in blocks and parries, his shoulders setting automatically when a threat appeared.

"I...can definitely handle a sword," Alistair kept his voice from indicating anything more than that. Let them guess at how he'd been trained.

"We're in need of a few blades on board, to keep things peaceful. If you would be willing to wield for us, we'd take you on for...a quarter-gold. You in?" And it sounded almost like a demon's bargain, but Alistair could still see Kylon in his mind, could imagine his eyes narrowed in observation. _Would he come after me if I tried to go back into the city? What if he has those orders, would he kill _me_ to protect Ferelden?_

This notion soured in his stomach, and his hand was already moving towards the coin pouch. The world paused as he dropped silvers into a tan palm and was ushered aboard a vessel already overrun with refugees.

He didn't get a chance to really think about the import of this moment, how his second foot coming away from the gangplank marked the last decision in a series of decisions that took him from a man who could have helped save the world to a man who wanted to just get _lost_ in it. All he could focus on was everyone else, and how terrified they all were. They were leaving home, and leaving home, even one that was being tainted and overrun by unspeakably foul things, was incredibly _difficult_.

Well, it was difficult for _most_.

_Home_. It seemed a suddenly laughable concept. Now that he had gotten this far, Alistair couldn't get away fast enough.

* * *

The voyage to their destination port in the Free Marches would take eight days. They had rations for _four_. Alistair's job would be to stand guard while sips of watered-down wine and strips of dried fish were distributed to the passengers. The captain, the man who'd offered him this position, recommended that he look as intimidating as possible.

"Your job is as much about preventing as protection," he ran his thumb along the bridge of his hooked nose and nodded curtly. Alistair fingered the hilt of the longsword he'd been issued, thinking of his fellow passengers, almost all peasants or elves. At most, they might be wearing woolen cloaks. He could take nearly all of them down with his bare hands.

So he agreed to intimidation, but not to ensure any crewmember's safety. He'd intimidate to avoid having to hurt a desperate refugee. He'd not fallen _that_ far.

Trouble started on the third day, when an elven man, stooped and slight despite the fact that he appeared to be not far past thirty, requested a third bit of mackarel for his son. Giorgio, the crewman responsible for the rations, refused this with gusto. _He _was protected by the sandy-haired man at his elbow, who kept his dark eyes cold and pulled his blade from its scabbard just far enough that the elf would see the barest glint of deadly steel.

"You would kill me for wanting my son fed?" Alistair was not expecting that response, or the way disgust flashed in the elf's rainwater colored eyes.

"You get same as everyone, only you're an elf, so you don't _need_ as much. Share with your son, if it's important to you," Giorgio was large enough to intimidate all on his own, and the elven man left in defeat, grabbing his son's pale hand as he walked away, the dark-haired child peering back at Alistair with frank curiosity. Alistair, his face unmoving, would have preferred more _disgust_.

* * *

And then he couldn't get away from the elfling.

There wasn't much to do on a crowded ship but wait for meals, which did nothing to make the meals any less of a disappointment. Alistair spent most of his time hiding in shadows and trying not to think too much about _anything_. It was hard, though, because there were people _everywhere_ and they had no boundaries to speak of.

The elf child, for example, had been following him all morning and found him where he'd settled into a hollow alongside the deck, taking a careless seat on Alistair's feet. He was still curious about this _shem_ and began asking questions.

"What are you?" His voice was small, and he followed everything with an unblinking gaze, the same disconcerting shade of nothing as his father's.

And it was an easy enough query to start, but Alistair had the urge to pour out every ounce of self-loathing that welled up within him.

"I'm The Forgotten."

This earned a skeptical eyebrow pop and a high-pitched giggle, which made Alistair feel incredibly..._silly_, to be honest, for the _dramatics_.

"Why do you have a _sword_?" As if this was _obviously_ meant all along, "Nobody _else_ has a sword."

_Nobody else was desperate enough to blindly accept this position._

"I have a sword? _Where_?" It was surprisingly easy to slip into humor. The way the child's face widened into a smile loosened something inside of Alistair that had been held tight since the Landsmeet.

"Right _there_," the boy covered his mouth and ducked his head down, pointing to the scabbard with his free hand and then laughing a surprisingly robust laugh when Alistair recoiled at the sight of it, like it was a viper rearing to strike.

"By the _Maker_, I _do_ have a sword. Hmmm, perhaps it's because _I_ am a _coward_," this time there was no scoffing, but a nod of sage understanding. "Only cowards need to carry a sword against unarmed men and women."

Before the child could delve further into Alistair's psyche, his father came along. The older man didn't even bother to look at Alistair, merely taking his obedient son's hand and then cupping his head affectionately as they moved on.

Alistair felt a small tug of regret. For a few minutes, he'd almost felt normal. For a few minutes, he'd almost felt as if he was still...completely himself. _In_ _a_ _way_.

That night, before he settled to sleep, he found the elves already curled together and lost to the world. Moving carefully, his hands not used to such deft actions, he pulled a wax parcel from his pack and slid it into the small gap between father and son. It contained three strips of dried fish, barely enough for one person to have for one meal, but the offering of thanks made _him_ feel better, at least.

* * *

The fifth day was the _worst_ day. Restlessness, thirst, hunger and heat were starting to turn even the most peaceful of passengers crazy-eyed and short-tempered. Add to that the stench of human excrement and unwashed bodies and Alistair was being called up to control _situations_ every hour or so.

Oddly enough, he'd not have to pull his blade in all this time, for which he was grateful. They only had three days remaining on the ship, their landing tantalizingly close. It seemed a shame for things to fall apart _now_.

But time and reason were lost on the half-starved and the half-mad with thirst. Although there were no attacks at mealtime, the elven father was once again shorted when Giorgio slopped wine from his wooden cup and offered him barely half as much as everyone else would receive. He took it without complaint, his eyes burning with rage he didn't attempt to conceal, and the Rivaini's lips twisted into a sadistic smile as the small man shuffled out, his son even paler than he'd been two evenings ago and barely able to stand on his own feet.

It wasn't until later, as Alistair escorted Giorgio to the crew quarters, that the confrontation happened, and it started so _quickly_. One moment Alistair was taking a second to enjoy the cooling wind that swept over the deck as the sun left the sky and, the next, Giorgio was shouting something about uppity knife-ears keeping their judgmental _eyes_ to _themselves_.

Then Giorgio and the elf were face-to-face in the middle of a cleared circle, crew hanging patiently behind their countryman, passengers standing on the side of the elven man, his son only a few feet away from Alistair. And the gathered crowd recoiled as the elf summoned every bit of moisture in his mouth and spat on Giorgio's chest.

"_That_ is my judgment," his voice was ragged from dehydration. "You all are worth less than the _shit_ you smell like."

And Alistair should have intervened, he _did_ have a sword, after all. But there was just so much that could go _wrong_ (the crew all carried daggers and it would be no difficult thing to carve a swath through the mob of weakened passengers) and Giorgio was temperamental and an ass, but certainly he would never do anything

the blade drew across the elf's throat in one smooth motion, the crimson mist that arced outward only noticeable to someone paying attention or someone who had used a lot of daggers to slit a lot of throats. The rest of his blood burbled out and down his faded wool shirt. Before his body could even collapse to the deck, Giorgio had caught him and was dragging him to the side to fling overboard like so much debris.

The crew withdrew from the scene, marching silently to their quarters. The passengers all pulled in on one another for support and shuffled to find a place to hold for the night. Only Alistair and the elf child remained unclaimed and unmoving, one numbed with shock that people could be so _petty_, that senseless death could happen so _fast_, and the other wide-eyed with sadness that could not be adequately expressed due to...

_Maker, he's so dehydrated he can't even _cry_. _

For some reason this was even worse than the murder, and he reached into his pack to offer the only thing he could- a skin that contained about two small sips of watery ale. It was warm, but it seemed to help a little and the child allowed himself to be led below deck where Alistair found an unclaimed corner so the boy could curl up and away from the horrible thing he'd just witnessed.

But first, he stared at the man who could have done more to save his father, but his eyes were placid with exhausted grief rather than accusatory.

"Thank you," he swallowed thickly. "You're _not_ a coward."

His eyes closed and Alistair watched until sleep came to claim _him_, too.

* * *

The next night, Alistair dreamed of the Archdemon as it towered above him with wings unfurled, its great head thrown back in the throes of agony.

Then it fell in front of him, crashing to earth with a furious shriek and taking with it the dull, ever present roar to which he'd come quite accustomed since Ostagar. That night his dreams turned from violent shades of blood to blue-green calm and he awoke feeling horribly at peace. _She succeeded without me. Maybe _without me_ is what she needed all along._

The following evening the elf child, who confessed his name to be Lio, was near death. Alistair tried to smuggle a second portion of wine out of the larder after dinner but Giorgio, knowing he'd taken the boy under his care, was always _watching_ and Alistair could ill afford to bring the wrath of the entire crew down upon him. He'd already promised Lio he'd take him to an inn as soon as they disembarked and buy him a dinner of cheese, bread and fresh-pressed cider. Now he only had to get him off the boat alive.

With no resources, and his own body protesting the lack of nutrition, Alistair laid the child out below deck and settled down to wait until morning. If Lio survived the night, there was no reason why he shouldn't be able to recover completely. Physically, at least. His eyes were haunted by the specter of his father's death, his face never coming anywhere _near _the quirky joy Alistair had witnessed before.

_She_ came to him that night, for the first time since he'd left Ferelden. He thought he might actually be awake, Brand materializing between long blinks. She looked different here, small and insubstantial. Her hair was down, pushed away from her face and he'd never noticed before how..._regal_ she could appear with her long nose and graceful neck. Clad in a plain white shift, there was an eerie stillness about her and only her eyes seemed real as they shone at Alistair in the darkness, green sparks in the suffocating space he'd carved for himself and a bereft elfling.

"Are you dead?" He reached for her hand and swore he actually held it in his. It was warmer than it _should_ be, if she were actually gone.

"Not yet," her voice was just an echo, but it contained the same color it always had, a certain bemused lilt that he'd fallen in love with as she told him stories of her childhood. "They're trying to save me now, I think."

"You did _it_, though," he could hear the murmur of pride. He was too exhausted to hate her, and it _was_ a great thing she'd accomplished.

"Yes," this was as empty an utterance as Alistair had ever heard and he sensed her shifting away. "_You're_ dying, my love. You and your friend. I need you to...I need you to follow me."

And his heart broke when she said _my love_; she'd never called him that before and it made him realize she was only a figment of his imagination, a sad shadow of what he really wanted beside him in the night. He nonetheless did as he was told, gathering Lio carefully in his arms and following her ghostly form up the stairs to the deck.

There was no moonlight, but she shone even in the starless evening gloom. Alistair set Lio on the deck at his feet and turned to Brand. He could see now that her hair was caked with blood and, at the edges of her shift, her skin bruised and contused beyond anything he'd ever seen.

"You're so..._wounded_," his hands sought out her cheeks, and she grabbed his wrists the way she had before, her fingers digging into his skin with such fervor...he _felt_ them there _and that might mean she was more than a ghost_. They maintained their distance, however, and there was so much _wrong_ here that he couldn't even begin to name it all, but why would he _want_ to?

"There's a storm coming, Alistair," her eyes rolled towards the sky and a small smile curved her lips. He leaned forward to kiss her but she let go, pulling away just as fat drops of rain began to splash on and around them.

She angled her face to the heavens, eyes closing, and Alistair watched the water stream down her dove white _fish belly white _throat and bared limbs. For several seconds, he forgot his own aching thirst and took her in, his entire world narrowing to a woman who might be dying and who was certainly lost to _him_ forever.

"Forget me," this was whispered, and it would be the last thing he'd hear her say for over five years. "You have lives to save."

With a start, he kneeled next to Lio, shaking the boy awake as he caught rain in one cupped hand. The child allowed Alistair to funnel the downpour into his mouth, his swollen tongue stretching out to nab a few drops on his own. The boy's need was great, but Alistair paused to tilt his head back and open his mouth wide, _everything_ about this moment life-affirming. The rain was cold against his skin, sharp and pelting, but it would save him in the end. It would also save the orphaned child beside him.

As the storm continued more passengers made their way above deck to catch it in their mouths, their hands, their opened skins and flasks. One woman even licked the deck railing in a show of desperation that exemplified the injustices of these past few days.

But now was not the time to dwell on negative things. Lio was coming to life, eyes gleaming as the severity of his situation alleviated, and Alistair felt a rush of genuine gratitude followed by another pang of _this might not be the worst thing I've ever done in my life_.

* * *

The boat made port the next day, its passengers sated by their midnight buffet of rainwater, most of them waiting calmly above deck as the town of Wycome approached them like a beautiful promise.

Alistair had lost track of Lio, the boy running off to locate his father's abandoned pack. His absence turned out to be a blessing, as a scowling Giorgio approached Alistair to announce that the Captain wanted him to hang on to the sword.

"You did a good job," Giorgio obviously disagreed. "Only one dead, not so bad for this sort of thing."

"We could've had _no_ deaths if you wouldn't have goaded that poor man," Alistair was suddenly unafraid of the repercussions. "He was only looking out for his child."

Giorgio shrugged and went to walk away, calling back over his broad shoulder, "One less elf brat? The world would have thanked me. Either that, or not really cared either way."

This was a truth that gnawed at Alistair, and he started searching for Lio, concern rising in him as the boat lurched to a stop and the child remained lost. Before he even had the chance to go below deck, he was being herded off the ship as unceremoniously as he'd been pushed on and his eyes were frantically scanning the disembarking crowd in front of him before lack of success forced him to look backwards.

Moving forward with the rest of his passengers, Alistair fought the urge to call out the child's name, although his expression was probably just as telling as any vocal gesture would have been. He was almost ready to storm back up the gangplank, half-convinced that Giorgio had stolen Lio away to turn him into servant for the crew, when he saw the back of the child's dark head, his father's pack slung across his narrow shoulders.

He was walking between two elven women, one of whom held her hand protectively at his back. And _of course_ they would take him on, they'd feel compelled to look out for him, to get him to an alienage where he could at least be raised amongst other elves. And he might even have family in the Free Marches; not everyone would have selected their vessel as arbitrarily as Alistair had.

As the child got further away, Alistair realized that he'd pinned an awful lot of hopes to the small guy. Lio made Alistair feel like he had someone to protect, someone to save. Maker knows he wasn't going to take care of _himself_ unless he had someone _else_ to impress.

And here he was, on his own again.

_Free._

For a word that was supposed to inspire a sense of flying, it felt terribly heavy in Alistair's mind and on his tongue when he spoke it aloud, as if testing the limits of what he could do here on foreign soil.

"Free."

At that moment he realized he had no idea where to begin with this living _thing_. He had a sword, a few changes of clothing and fifty silver to his name. He didn't know where he was, what he could do, or how he was going to exist beyond the next week or so. And it was at _that _moment he realized "free" was merely a pretty way to say what he _really _was: Adrift. Unwanted. Unprepared.

And utterly, _utterly _alone.


	21. Looking In

Alistair gasped to consciousness, clinging to a bed that was becoming disconcertingly familiar as if the world might fall out from beneath him at any second. The dream he'd been having, so vivid at the time, withered away to the darkened edges of his mind and out of his memory forever.

The knock that had awoken him repeated itself and he labored onto his back, holding the covers close to his groin as he sat up.

"Come in, just...stop _knocking_," and he was less cranky than he sounded, just a bit tired and out of sorts. Yesterday had been a long one, almost completely unpleasant and more than a little confusing. And now he was going to be expected to go on a trip with Brand and her oddball little family of Grey Wardens and..._yay_. It was the mage at his door. _Again_. "What do _you_ want?"

"Honestly? To be curled up in a warm bed. Instead, I've been put in charge of dragging everyone else out of theirs," Anders was already dressed and carrying a large pack. "The Commander is in the armory and wants me to take you down there as soon as you're ready. I have some clothes for you to wear out."

He sort of _flung_ the shirt and pants into the room, as if entering any further would sully him for life.

"Weren't you with her last night?" Alistair, mindful of keeping himself covered, moved to the edge of the bed. The mage looked a bit unsettled by the question. _Odd, I didn't think he could _be_ unsettled. _"I mean, she's not _my_ Commander, and if you're _together_, it seems a bit disingenuous of you to call her by a title. Don't you think?"

Anders considered this for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching thoughtfully.

"Aren't you a Grey Warden, too? I mean, you _were_ a Warden before and that means you're tainted so, unless you've found a way to replace your own blood, it stands to reason that you're a Warden _still_. And, as you're currently in the headquarters of the Fereldan Wardens, Brand Cousland is _technically_ your Commander," he paused to lean against the door frame and smiled the same wolfish grin he'd smiled the other morning in the prison. "As for me, I call her Commander because I think women in positions of power are _incredibly_ attractive, not that she _needs_ the help, of course."

Fighting back some truly rude words, Alistair turned his attention to the wall. He really needed to learn that the mage was _always_ going to have a comeback, even when he seemed to be caught off guard. Better that than spend the next however many days getting _quipped_ to death.

"You have about twenty minutes, then we're leaving. Best not make _Brandelyn_ wait, she gets a bit cranky when things don't go according to schedule," shutting the door behind himself, Anders left Alistair to get dressed.

It didn't take him long to put on a shirt and pants, but he was in no hurry to depart. Touching his face, he suddenly remembered the night before and how Anders had stumbled into his room and healed him. He found a small mirror on the night stand and studied his now mended jaw and cheek, covered as it was by several weeks worth of dark blond fuzz.

Poking around a basket Brand had delivered at some point the day before, he unearthed a razor and soap. Carefully propping up the small mirror on top of the bookshelf, where the light was best, he went to work shaving, taking pains to not catch his own eyes in the reflection.

While he worked, his mind wandered back to yesterday and the strange and frustrating things that had occurred. He'd awoken to the happy sounds of a happy family, his own sense of not belonging multiplying with every childish giggle that wafted through the door. Then there was the singing, and that elven woman bursting in on him, lecturing him, as if he didn't hate being here enough _already_. Oh, and he was zapped. It didn't hurt, but it was _completely_ horrible to have to drag one's consciousness out of oblivion. The way it shut a mind down left a strange mental gap that was difficult to bridge and...

_Bryce_

The name came to him unbidden; the razor quivered against his cheek and blood bloomed across his skin. It was just a tiny nick, but it stung almost as much as that which caused it.

And only Brand would throw him in a room with a strange child and orders to kill anyone who tried to come in. And only Brand would have a son who chewed his lip nervously, glancing at the stranger beside him from the corner of his eyes with equal parts curiosity and concern and an utter lack of _fear_.

It was the _concern_ that struck him the most, as he imagined that he must have looked like some sort of swamp creature to the young boy, which is what prompted him to at least cover his eye. And that had led to Bryce pulling up his feet up and asking if Alistair was a pirate.

_They live near a port, it's reasonable that he's seen a pirate, and the mage certainly _looks_ the part._

Then they heard Brand yelling, both whipping their heads towards the door. Bryce never looked scared, only more _concerned_ with his teeth digging harder into his lip, and his eyes narrowing in consideration of what all that _noise_ could possibly mean.

And all that _before_ the explosion shook the floor and the next thing Alistair knew he was _pretending_, the child gleefully hanging from him, making him feel.

That was the high point. The rest of it, trekking through the tunnels, seeing Brand with that _beast_ glaring down at her and defending the mage had been not much fun.

Being taken to task by Oghren, of all people and almost _eloquently_, was the low point, probably. But now that he knew the dwarf was respectable, a father and leader in the Wardens, he felt slightly less about the upbraiding.

The rest of the evening was a blur of chasing, waiting, talking and breaking out a quick and unacknowledged bit of skill. Then he was healed, but not _really_ because the mage had only fixed the surface problems and left the unease that nested just beneath Alistair's skin, the creep of conscience and the overwhelming sense that he was an interloper here.

Yet, and this was brought home by the fact that he was sitting in a properly furnished room in nice clothing and shaving his face with a real razor and not a dagger, he was not a prisoner. Brand was _trying_, acknowledging in small ways that the situation was far from ideal, and _that_ made it worse somehow.

It had been a long time since anyone had tried for him, since anyone had thought him worth any effort _or faith_ at all. But it felt like a trap, and just as a restrictive as the cell had been.

With one last scrape, he finished with his face and rinsed off the razor. He might as well take it with him, he had no other possessions to speak of. From the hallway, he could hear Anders and Bryce talking about what Bryce could and could not take with him on this trip, each request escalating in size and ridiculousness ("My rocking horse?" "Too awkward." "My bed?" "Too big." "The fireplace?" "Stuck in the wall." "The stables?" "Too stinky.").

Alistair joined them in the foyer, an already cheery Bryce visibly brightening at the sight of his pirate friend.

"Hi, Al…And..." he tilted his head back and looked to Anders for help. The mage complied by bending down to whisper into the boy's ear. Bryce turned back to Alistair, eyes gleaming with the sort of amusement that only a four year-old could wring from something so simple as a name and, "Good morning, Alistair."

"Good morning, Bryce." For some reason, this tickled Bryce and he buried his face against Anders' leg, giggling like mad.

"He's always like this in the morning," the mage offered in a tone that some might consider cordial. "Goofy, giddy and prone to the giggles."

The child pulled back, although his fingers remained curled in Anders' pant leg, and pressed his lips together contemplatively, "Anders, may I take my..._blocks_?"

"Oh, you're going to be reasonable now?" Bryce nodded vigorously, leaping forward as Anders moved to open the apartment door."You're in luck, Brand has already packed your blocks. She knew you'd want them."

Nathaniel and Sigrun were waiting in the hallway. Howe looked like he'd been up all night, haggard and fretfully pale even for him. Sigrun was almost as cheerful as Bryce. Alistair had to admit that it was a strange juxtaposition, the dwarven woman's severe facial tattoos were a sharp contrast to her mirthful demeanor.

"Are we all ready?" Anders seemed slightly uncomfortable with his role as temporary group leader and the fact that he looked to Bryce for reassurance only reinforced that notion. When nobody offered resistance, Anders shrugged and threw open the passageway door stepped through, Bryce now clinging to his hand and the other three adults following close behind.

They traveled in relative silence, the shuffling of tired feet and the magical hum from Anders' staff as it lit their way echoing oddly off of the stone walls. This time, they took an unexpected turn and were soon spilling into a long, narrow room lined floor to ceiling and wall to wall in weapon cabinets, armor-bearing forms and sword racks. Even the middle of the chamber was occupied by a row of trunks that Alistair imagined held all manners of martial treasure.

Brand was alone, standing with her back to the door and rummaging through a cabinet. The floor behind her was piled with a hodge-podge of armor pieces ranging from basic steel chainmail to a rather fearsome looking breastplate that glowed crimson with heat.

"Alistair, you're the only one I need right now," Brand didn't even look up from the cabinet. "Anders, make sure our luggage is loaded into the carriage and Nathaniel and Sigrun will need to get their horses ready. Nate, you'll be riding Kadan."

The dark haired man was at Alistair's elbow and he could sense him tense up at this news.

"Commander, is that necessary? It's been awhile since..."

"It _is_ necessary. I want him with us in case something happens and someone needs to get someplace _extremely_ fast. I can't ride right now, and you're the only other person who can handle him."

This was final; Nathaniel let loose a sigh of frustration but filed dutifully out of the armory after Sigrun. Anders seemed hesitant, his eyes flicking to Brand, but Bryce was ready to get right out of there ("_Horses_, Anders.") and managed to tug the mage into compliance.

Alone, Alistair watched Brand for a few moments, registering what she wore- a forest green dress that was quite _fitted_ in the bodice and seemed quite unlike the traveling garments worn by merchant wives in Antiva. Not that Brand had ever been that fashion forward, that he knew of. Her chestnut hair was in a long, loose braid that ended almost halfway down her back and, when she spun around to show him an exquisitely crafted hauberk she'd discovered he couldn't help the _Maker's breath_ that almost made it past his lips. She was remarkably lovely this morning, even with exhaustion dulling her normally vibrant eyes.

He wasn't the only one taken aback; the moment her gaze landed on _him_, her face went unnaturally still. This only lasted a couple of seconds, and she caught herself before Alistair could officially label it Meaningful, but there was a definite and newfound flush that found its way to her cheeks and Alistair wondered idly if the mage would've healed him had he foreseen even this slight reaction.

"So...Anders fixed you," it was a statement, neutral as can be, and she carefully closed the cabinet and gestured to the pile of armor at her feet. "_And_ you shaved."

"Yes, and yes," Alistair sifted through the offering for just a few moments before tilting his head towards a plain set of splintmail. "What material is that?"

"What?" Her eyebrow shot up in surprise, "You want _that_?"

"Why not?" The metal was a strange pale gold. "It will work, won't it?"

"Of course it will work, Wade forged it himself. Well, try it on over your shirt. See how it feels."

While he strapped himself in, he realized he was getting more than just armor- a long dragonskin-bound case rested across two trunks and she pushed the lid back just as he approached to show off how perfectly the selected cuirass fit him.

There were no words that could adequately describe how he felt when he saw the two blades nestled in their bed of black velvet. One was pale dragonbone, glittering hilt to tip with runes that glowed with ethereal power, the other was odder still, an alien metal that seemed to hum with its own strength.

"Maker's breath, you _kept_ these?" He couldn't keep his hands from running the length of Starfang, his fingers already yearning for the familiar grip of it. Mikhail Dryden forged the blade especially for Brand but, while the sword was as deadly as anything when she wielded it, it _sang_ for Alistair.

"Of course I did. In case..." she stopped herself and withdrew the other sword from the container. It had belonged to King Maric and, though Alistair never cared much for carrying something of his father's, it _was_ an amazing weapon. "They haven't seen much action since Cauthrien's archers."

At the mention of pre-Landsmeet happenings, his eyes burned even as they darted to her face. He was sinking into a memory incredibly vivid with spilled blood and _closeness_. Briefly, he felt the heat of her lips on his and her smile as perfect against the backdrop of misery as anything had ever been.

"So, you're giving them back?" His voice went up a little at the end of this question; the surge of _I once loved this woman_ catching him unaware. As if it were a fragile thing, Brand laid Maric's blade to rest in its coffin and lowered the lid with extreme care.

"They're yours if you want them." She'd felt it, too, her voice was as cautious as her movements. He nodded, trying to hide everything he was feeling; displaced longing most of all. "Good, they're too good to go to waste. If you want to grab your armor, I'll...get this to the carriage and we can be on our way."

It was almost curt after the past few minutes of muted familiarity, but Alistair didn't notice so much. He was unabashedly lost in a quiet memory of silent exploration and the way her skin reacted to his tongue and fingertips.

It was, admittedly, a nice place to be.

* * *

They were greeted in the still-darkened yard by the seneschal and the elven woman from the day before. _Fiona_. Neither seemed to be particularly happy and, within a few minutes, the grounds for their discord was revealed.

"Commander," Varel's voice was even raspier than usual, and he couldn't keep his grey eyes off the slight woman at his side. "Commander, _please_ explain to Fiona that you have no need for two healers on your trip to Highever."

"What?" Brand set the weapon case at her feet and studied the pair in front of her, then let out a small noise of understanding. "No, I don't _need_ two, but Fiona is welcome to come with us. Fergus, for one, would be glad to see her again."

Fiona allowed herself a look of triumph, "She's right, Varel. And I _did _just tell you the other day that I was thinking about writing to him."

"But Commander, this leaves the Vigil with only apprentices..."

"Semantics, Varel," Fiona cut the seneschal off with surprising authority. "Shona and Blythe are full mages and talented healers, they're only apprentices in the sense that they're studying under me for field experience. Besides, I've already packed." She smiled prettily, which caused Brand to snort.

The seneschal was displeased but out-reasoned.

"So, you're taking all of your senior Wardens with you? Is that the wisest course of action?"

"I can leave Nate and Sigrun, if you want," Brand was obviously amused. "_You're_ the one who insisted I travel with scouts and you knew who I would choose. Besides, Oghren is more than capable of handling anything that should arise. I'm assuming that, once I leave, I'll be taking our recent troubles with me."

This remark did nothing to placate Varel's open concern, if anything his eyes went a bit wider with panic as he tried but failed to not turn to the mage at his side. Alistair realized that this was a domestic concern, _not_ an administrative one, and he felt foolish for having missed the subtext from the beginning.

"Will two scouts be enough, then?" His arms crossed and he peered down at Brand with paternal concern that she waved off.

"Varel, please. Two scouts plus four Wardens on the carriage? We'll be fine. I promise I'll return everyone alive and in one piece."

"Not even _you_ can ensure that, Commander. Though you _are_ lucky when it comes to such things," this was the seneschal relenting while getting in a final word, his expression falling into resignation as he escorted the two women and Alistair to the carriage which awaited them by the stables.

Their vessel was already hitched to a pair of massive horses that stomped at the ground in response to the humans buzzing around them. Their coachman, seated on the front bench of the carriage, was an expansive man with curly white hair that extended alongside his face and overtook his chin to spill over a vast, cloak-covered chest. His cheeks and nose were ruddy even in the pre-dawn light and Alistair caught a gleam of good-humor in his pale eyes.

The carriage itself was generously proportioned but modestly designed. Besides the covered front bench, a padded backseat sat beneath a wide canvas awning. With Varel's help, Fiona stepped up and took that rear position, and Alistair noted that the seneschal held her hand for a few seconds longer than necessary. Fiona rewarded him with a small, genuine smile that telegraphed consolation and affection without giving much away. She was a strange one, he'd decided. He'd worked alongside many elves in the Free Marches and Antiva, and most carried themselves with her air of aloofness around humans. However, few of them also seemed so _entangled_ in human affairs.

"Where is Fiona from?" He inclined his head towards Brand, who was still beside him, waiting for stewards to clear the side doors so she could have them load his weapons and armor.

"Oh, you mean you can't place her accent? She's originally from Orlais, the alienage in Val Royeaux. However, she was stationed in Weisshaupt for over twenty years and I think she's picked up a bit from there."

"Twenty _years_? At _Weisshaupt_? Why would anyone _do_ that to themselves?" Even before he'd left the Wardens, he'd heard nothing positive about their headquarters _or_ the members of the Order who inhabited those blighted lands.

"She had a baby," the corner of Brand's mouth turned down at this. "She couldn't leave the Wardens to raise her, since then she would just be an apostate, and the First Warden dictated that the offspring of active Wardens be taken away and placed with family members or orphanages. Fiona chose the latter and...well, I guess living in Weisshaupt didn't seem so hard after having to make _that_ decision."

_Maker_. "I imagine not," he eyed the elf, already tucked into her seat, with new sympathy. Before he could say more, the stewards were summoning Brand forward and, within minutes, Alistair found himself seated inside a remarkably comfortable cab. The seats, hollowed for storage, were well-padded and everyone had a decent amount of legroom. He sat with his back to the coachman, Brand and Anders taking the opposing seat with Bryce in between. There was a small ledge just behind them and Ser Pounce-a-lot sat at the ready, seemingly nonplussed by all the activity.

"Why are we going to see Fergus?" Bryce leaned against Anders, whose focus was on the activity outside of the coach.

"Because I need to talk to him," Brand pulled his feet into her lap, unconcerned with the mud from his boots smearing across her skirt. "And _you'll_ get a chance to play with your cousin Norah."

"Norah's just a baby," he looked up at Anders for support. "She pulls my hair. _Delyn_ doesn't pull my hair."

Anders laughed, "Well, Delyn's older than Norah. She also punched you, didn't she? Of course, you're in love with _her_. Men will always let women they love get away with more."

And Alistair had no idea if a four year-old could _possibly_ understand how love worked, but Bryce nodded in furious agreement, which earned a laugh from Brand.

"Bryce, what have I told you about listening to Anders? _Especially_ when he talks about girls or women."

"Don't listen to Anders. Or...," his eyes rolled upward as if the answer was written on the canvas stretched above their heads. "Or I might get _slapped_."

"You _do_ realize that your mother is just trying to keep you from having fun," Anders spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. "She secretly _loves_ the way I talk."

_Not so secretly_. Brand went pink-cheeked again, but she managed to dart her hand out and smack Anders' shoulder, a gesture which made Bryce sink against the mage and giggle.

"See? Brand just slapped you!"

"Well, you know how she likes to be right about _everything_," Anders ruffled the child's hair with clear affection. "Fortunately for her, I'm inclined to let her get away with it."

_Wow_. That seemed _highly_ inappropriate to Alistair, because he _was_ sitting only a few feet away and all he could do was stare out the window and avoid Brand's reaction to what Anders had just admitted. _I wonder if Fiona would let me join her? The idea of days and days of _this_ seems as torturous as any...torture._

But Varel was already waving the coachman ahead and the carriage lurched into motion with a groan.

He kept his eyes on the sleeping world beyond the carriage, trying his best to ignore the way the man, woman and child across from him settled against each other in comfortable silence.

Yesterday, when Brand had come to release them from Nathaniel's room, she'd gotten a _look_ on her face. A _Meaningful_ look. It was just a blink, a fleeting lapse into _what if,_ but Alistair had seen it. And he _knew_ what had caused that half-second of confusion.

He'd found a small measure of peace while pretending with Bryce. It was more than the playing while things fell apart just beyond a closed door, and more than squealing laughter and nonsense about the life of a pirate. It was the fact that Brand trusted him with the huge responsibility of protecting her son. And it was the fact that her son saw right through Alistair's swollen face and what _he_ felt was an impenetrable veneer of lost cause to something good, protective and trust_worthy_.

When Brand walked in, he was that person she trusted. He wasn't the Alistair she thought she knew, but he was as close as he could get and she'd _responded _to that.

Although the rest of the day had been pretty dreadful, those several minutes had been the nicest he'd had since...well, since before the Landsmeet.

Now, in the carriage, he could see the silhouettes of Brand, her son and her mage and they were all three together. _Happily _so.

His stomach clenched and his eyes narrowed against the bright bite of oncoming tears. He should know better than to allow himself even fleeting moments of hope. No matter if they all knew his name, and set swords aside for him and gave him a place in the carriage, he was still the painfully obvious outsider, back to lurking just beyond existence and living in the margins of a life that was hardly his own.

Whether in a cell, or a guest bedroom, or on a bench to himself, it was all the same level of captivity. The world was nothing _but _a prison when you had no real place in it.


	22. Awakening

"Brand, can you tell me a story?"

It sounded innocent enough and, to be fair, Bryce had been remarkably well behaved since their departure that morning, nestling between his mother and Anders for most of the morning and flipping quietly through a book of pictures for hours after they stopped for lunch. However, he'd grown increasingly _fidgety _in the past hour. This manifested itself in the way his butt seemed to want to be anywhere that wasn't its current location.

The first few times he asked to trade seats with Brand, she'd complied. After the fifth request, however, she'd pursed her lips and gave him a firm "No, you'll have to make do with your place by the door." This arrangement put her hip-to-hip with the mage, and they were trying to read the same book, a hefty tome chronicling the history of mages in the Grey Wardens dating back to the first Blight.

None of this mattered to a caged four year-old who could kick noisily at the wooden bench below and did so with abandon. It was a bit of racket for a small space and, when he requested a story, Brand seemed more than happy to oblige.

"What story do you want to hear?"

"You should tell him about the Archdemon," Anders closed his book, keeping one long finger between the pages to mark his place. "Even _I_ loved a good dragon slaying tale when I was a child."

Brand pulled at her skirt, her hands twisting the fabric in agitation. Alistair noted this with some interest, his mood from that morning having settled into a general malaise that did nothing to dampen his curiosity. She seemed so uncomfortable with this topic it made him almost want to know what had happened in that final confrontation.

"There are tales of dragon slaying, and then there are tales that end in your mother b-r-o-k-e-n and nearly d-y-i-n-g," Brand ignored Alistair's gasp at this. "Maybe when he's older. I _could_ tell him about the dragons we fought in the mines."

"Hmm, much better," the mage rolled his eyes. "That one involves _me_ being knocked out thirty seconds into the fight and not coming around until you'd killed them both."

"Oh, but it was _fun_. No healer, Velanna went down a minute later, and Oghren spent most the fight on his back trying to whack at their ankles with his axe."

Bryce followed their conversation, his expression bemused until, "Tell me about Botoff."

"Botolf?" Brand's gaze flickered to her son, curiosity raising her brow. "So you know where we are on the road, then?"

The child nodded and sat up straighter to see the lands beyond their carriage that were darkening under a mass of gathering storm clouds. Alistair could smell saltwater on the air, which meant they must be very near Amaranthine.

"Huh. Well, there's not a lot to tell you about Botolf. Travelers on the road to Amaranthine have stories about a strange, hooded man who speaks with a lisp and saves those pilgrims, merchants and families that are being unduly accosted by wild animals and bandits. He will never show his face, or accept gifts or money as gratitude, and he usually allows those he protects to take whatever goods are dropped by their attackers."

"Is Botoff real?" A shadow had crossed the child's face as he listened to this story; his teeth were working on his lip.

"Most people think he's a legend concocted by the city guard to keep highwaymen and robbers away from Amaranthine during reconstruction," Anders leaned forward to say this. "But he _does_ exist, he _is_ real. Maybe not as generous with the loot as they say, but you can't have your mythical hooded hero be anything less than perfect."

Silence descended on the cab as Bryce mulled over this bit of information, the carriage creaking around them.

"Then why didn't Botoff save Teagan?"

Brand's hand shot out for Anders', her face growing pale even as she visibly gathered her strength to respond.

"Honey, your father died near _Redcliffe_," she ran her free hand along Bryce's cheek. He didn't seem upset, just openly curious. "You know Redcliffe, with the big castle over the lake? It's far, far away from where Botolf stays."

"So _nobody_ could save him?"

Brand withdrew her hands to press them against her stomach. Alistair _knew_ they were shaking, he'd seen her do this very thing countless times when they were together. It had been his sign to make a stupid joke, or do something foolish that would distract everyone, but _especially_ her. It didn't always work, though she always seemed grateful for the effort.

Anders had things under control, of course, a warm, golden light flaring at the base of her neck where'd he positioned his hand after she'd dropped it. Her eyes drifted shut, the muscle pulled tight in her jaw relaxed and her hands went still in her lap.

By the time she'd collected herself, Bryce's attention had turned itself to Ser Pounce, who'd moved down from his perch behind them to curl in the child's lap. For several minutes, Brand watched her son stroke the feline's glossy orange fur until it fell asleep, purring contentedly. She stared so long that her eyes went unfocused, her gaze wandering to the empty space beside Alistair. Her face had never lost the calm blankness that overtook it at Anders' spell, and _that_seemed to concern the mage. He leaned close to whisper in her ear, his mouth then lowering to press a kiss against her neck.

Alistair darted his eyes away, his vision going wavy at the edges. Brand, cheered considerably, reached across the mage's lap to pull open the book, settling against him to pour over the same words, their heads moving in sync as they read across the pages.

With things were quiet again Alistair could fully focus on how exhaustingly _dull _it was to travel via carriage as the gentle sway tempted Alistair into sleep. Just as he was giving in to the gravity pulling at his eyelids, Brand spoke.

"Do you want to meet him, Alistair?"

He shook to awareness to see her eyes bright and trained on him.

"Brand, do you really think _now's_ the best time?" Anders was _clearly_ not in love with this idea, which made it all the more intriguing to Alistair.

"Meet who?" Alistair shifted, his legs _were_ getting stiff.

"The Messenger," she turned to Anders. "He might have heard something these past few days, something that could prove helpful before we end up in the city proper."

"_Yes_, this is _strictly_ business, and not at _all_ about showing off your pet..." Brand was giving him a Look, sultry yet reprimanding. It stopped him dead. "_What?_"

"Don't give away the surprise!" She half-stood and shuffled across the cab, kneeling beside Alistair to slide aside a wooden panel that would give her access to Coachman Gil. Her conversation with him was brief and in what sounded like Orlesian. Though displeased to be stopping he did as told, the carriage rolling to a careful halt at the edge of the dirt road.

"Bryce, stay here with Anders and Pounce. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Brand stepped out of the carriage, pulling her wool cloak tight around her shoulders as Alistair followed. The air around them was thick with the promise of rain and an undeniable scent of saltwater. The main gate to Amaranthine was less than a mile away, yet their current location seemed as remote and untamed as the Kocari Wilds.

"No wonder brigands like this place, even with a fearsome bandit slayer on the loose," Alistair hung by the carriage as Brand headed towards a thick grove of pine trees. This was seeming like a terrible idea, the impenetrable wilderness blackening under threat of storm, but he went after her even as his stomach churned with genuine dread.

For several minutes, they walked without speaking, the only sound that of their footfalls on a thick layer of orange pine needles. Then, without warning, Alistair was overtaken by nausea, his blood turning impossibly hot in his veins and his nostrils filling with an unmistakable stench. He looked to Brand; she _had_ to be aware of this, too, but she continued blithely along as if nothing was amiss, striding ahead until he reached his hand out to catch her cloak.

"Don't you _feel _it?" His breath was shallow, his body's automatic response to sensing darkspawn, as if avoiding deeper breathing would somehow keep his lungs from being poisoned the way his blood had been.

"Of course I do," she tugged her cloak away and moved forward. He grabbed her again, this time wheeling her around so they were face to face.

"Where are you taking me?" He couldn't believe how calm she was; why wasn't she on her guard? "We're not even _armed_!"

"You might not be, but _I_ am," she stepped back without breaking eye contact, as if daring him to guess where she might be concealing her weapons. "Besides, we don't _need _to be. I wouldn't put us in harm's way, not with Bryce so close."

And he had to trust her when she said that.

Besides, it wasn't much further into the trees that he _heard_it, but it was hearing all wrong. Darkspawn grunted and hissed, they made moist sounds and grit their teeth. They didn't _talk_, much less _mumble_ under their breath like daft old men lost on their way to tea.

"This one freed the Messenger, this one _knows_. This one calls the Messenger _Botolf_ and is friend," there was a man sized shape pacing in a clearing ahead, which was covered overhead by canvas stretched between the trees and anchored with nautical rope. Although hard to make out furnishings, Alistair was almost certain this might be a _home_of some sort, a home that belonged to the creature that approached nervously where they'd stopped at the edge of his domain. "This one is the Warden-Commander, this one is having a visitor to Botolf. It is not mage or small thing, it is new."

Without thinking, Alistair grabbed Brand's arm, his fingers digging into her as his insides turned to roiling oil and his brain, six years removed from such activity, screamed _kill it, kill it, kill it dead. _She did not pull away, but rather made an amused noise that caused the darkspawn to reel back a few steps.

"It's all right, Botolf. This is Alistair and he is another Grey Warden."

She kept _saying_ things like that and it never failed to shoot him momentarily out of body.

"I cannot see him, but I be feeling he is such as you. Older than, as well," Botolf stepped forward to the edge of shadow between them and his covered space. Alistair drew a sharp breath and willed his fisting right hand to stay at his side.

He was just a hurlock and yet not, a man with no features save milky lidless eyes that rolled almost uselessly in the daylight. A mouth without lips stretched over a row of crooked, blackened teeth all lined up and jagged in putrid gums and his flesh was the color of bark and mildew, always peeling and curling away from the bone beneath. The silverite hauberk he wore framed his face like some demented version of a swaddled infant and, this close, Alistair could hear his every sibilant wheeze.

"I would like to ask you questions, Botolf. About things that have been happening in the city…"

"This one needs ask nothing, Botolf knows what be going on in Amaranthine," he nodded in agreement with himself, his entire torso jerking forward as if his skull was fused to his spine. "Sent to kill you, two of them soft. A large one and a small one that tasted of rabbit sweet with blood."

"_Gross._"

This earned Alistair a poisonous glare from his _Commander_.

"So I take it you…dispatched them?" Brand's tone was cautious.

Botolf's gloved fingers twisted at his stomach like a maiden before a flirtatious knight. _Does he have a _crush_ on her?_ _Can darkspawn _have_ crushes?_ Alistair bit back the urge to vomit.

"Waiting for this one, did not see the Messenger. They died before words could be made and it was done," he bowed his head. "They would harm this one, Botolf killed not the innocent but prevented _harm_."

"I am grateful to you, Botolf," as Brand ventured a few steps towards him, Alistair loosened his grip on her forearm and it slid away beneath his palm. Then, to his surprise, her fingers caught his and she tugged at him to follow her. "Did you find anything on the bodies? Any notes, anything interesting?"

The Messenger seemed as pleased as a beast could be that she was not afraid of him, and he beckoned her back to what Alistair realized, with a tightening of his hand in hers, was the entrance to a _cave_.

And Alistair had never considered himself terribly intelligent, but one would have to get him very drunk _indeed_ before he was stupid enough to pursue a _talking_ _darkspawn_ into a strange _cave_.

Fortunately, they stopped just at the entrance where the Messenger kneeled before a large crate covered with rotting animal skins. He positioned himself so neither of his visitors could see the contents of the box, but Brand was more than willing to allow for the dodge when he came up with a pair of elaborate golden daggers and a necklace.

Delicately taking the offered weapons from Botolf, Brand examined them with an expert's meticulousness. They appeared to be forged as a solid piece of gold, shorter than the sort she carried, with a dramatically arced blade and a hilt designed to fit fingers smaller than her own.

"Was one of the killers an elf?" She sliced through the air and, even without the ability to get a solid grip, the motion was terrifyingly quick. "You said one was _small_."

Botolf nodded again, that strange full-body spasm. "Small, yes. I be having that one for meal days ago, but not eating. Just in my mouth."

That disturbed even Brand and she turned to Alistair with disquieted eyes, "Have you ever seen anything like these?"

He _had_, in a memory that flashed out of shadows- gloved hands reaching from somewhere unseen, and these very blades drawing across bared throats only to disappear before blood could even spurt forth. Fear pooled in his stomach as he pushed this vision back and jerked his chin down in response to her question.

"They're Antivan. The Crows use them when they want to make a _point_ and not just an anonymous kill," he swallowed hard, his throat gone dry. "And only the highest level assassins get them, those who are carrying out the Master's own work."

She remained silent entirely too long before letting out a barely audible _oh_ that was more thought than word

"And the necklace?" All excitement and pretense of adventure had drained from her posture and even Botolf seemed cowed by her newly serious demeanor as he offered the golden amulet that was in the shape of a bird. Another sign that pointed to the Crows. She bounced the small figure against her palm a few times, brow furrowed in consideration, "Huh. It's broken. See? The wings have fallen off."

"This one is disappointed. Warden-Commander made safe by Botolf, not angry," and if a decomposing creature could look hurt, the Messenger definitely did at that.

Brand's fingers curled around the amulet and she made a reassuring noise in her throat. "Not angry, Botolf. Appreciative. You kept me safe and these things are helpful. Unfortunately, I need to get back to my carriage. There's a storm is coming."

Brand saw Alistair flinch at these words, but his expression had gone completely unreadable when he saw the daggers that she now held hidden beneath her cloak. With a final _thank you_, she led Alistair away from Botolf's home, not that he needed to be asked twice. Were she not setting the pace, he might very well have sprinted the distance to the road.

Just as the sense of Botolf faded, Alistair reached for her arm and compelled her to halt. For a long moment they stood in silence and even the normal chatter of the forest held itself down while the man and woman in its midst stared at one another with purposely blank eyes. Alistair broke the stalemate.

"What in Andraste's name was _that _about?" Apparently he hadn't enjoyed their little trip as much as she'd hoped he would. "What in Andraste's name was _that_?"

It was clear from the way fear broke his voice and twitched at his skin that Alistair was less than impressed with Botolf. She remembered the first time Anders had seen a Disciple, the way his eyes were wide with wonder at how much _more _it seemed when compared to the mindless beasts he'd encountered when he first arrived at the Vigil. She thought that Alistair might be similarly amazed, she certainly hadn't expected him to be _afraid_.

"Botolf is a darkspawn," this may have been said with a touch more tartness than was strictly necessary. "A darkspawn that had been _awakened_."

Alistair's posture shifted left like he might yet tear away from her, probably to the nearest bar where he could lose the image of Botolf's hard, black tongue flicking against sharpened teeth as he spoke. It might take a whole barrel of ale, but she imagined he'd had to drown out far worse things in the years he had spent growing disconcertingly _knowledgeable _about the Antivan Crows.

"Can I ask you a question?" This caused Alistair to rejoin her completely, his brows shooting up, his hands waving away her query.

"No...no. _No_. You can't just drop a _bomb_ like that and expect me to understand with so little explanation," he moved closer; she shuffled back. Her fingers were still warmed from where they'd touched his and _that_ was far too much familiarity for one afternoon.

"A _bomb_? That's my _life_," her tone was irritated now, and she tugged on the edge of her cloak to mitigate her frustration. "Fine- an explanation: After the Blight, an emissary called the Architect ordered an attack on the Vigil. This was the night I arrived as Warden-Commander when all the Orlesian Wardens were either killed, or used for experiments. The Architect was immune to the call of the Old Gods, and he discovered putting other darkspawn through a sort of Joining, but with Grey Warden blood, made them immune, too. It also made them...smarter. More humane." She tilted her head and shot a sideways glance back towards the Messenger's clearing. "Botolf was one of the Architects's Disciples. He helped us fight against darkspawn that attacked Amaranthine, and I spared his life. You can imagine how delighted Garavel was with _that_ decision."

"I'm surprised you didn't make it a Grey Warden," this was laced with as much acrimony as she'd ever heard from him, and his dark eyes were spitting anger. "A darkspawn would fit right in with _him_, and a Howe, and a man who'd threaten a woman in front of her own child."

"I thought you'd find him interesting," Brand mumbled this as if he'd just commented on the weather and _not_ lambasted her judgment and her friends...well, _friend_. _Who isn't really a friend anymore._

She turned her back to him and strode purposefully towards the road, wondering as she sometimes did whether Bryce was some sort of conduit of fate. If he hadn't, inexplicably, asked about Botolf, she wouldn't have stopped to visit the creature, Alistair would be mad at her but not _hateful_ and she'd still be pretty much clueless about the fact that one of her favorite and most trusted people in the world might be trying to kill her.

That last one almost doubled her over with the _hurt_ of it.

"Momma!" Bryce waited just inside of the tree line, Anders a few steps behind him. Her son scurried towards her as if she'd been gone for days and not mere minutes. It didn't matter to her, she was glad to feel his arms around her legs, to hear his excited chattering about the _fascinating_ events that transpired in her absence, mainly waiting and relieving himself. She was so caught up in catching up that she barely noticed Alistair sweeping by and into the carriage. Bryce did and he let go of her to bound in after the man, Coachman Gil standing by to boost him up before returning to his position at the reins.

For the moment, she was alone with Anders (although Bryce's voice carried to them as he repeated his story to Alistair) and he regarded her with concern. She _wanted _to tell him about the daggers, to share the possibility that Zevran may have given her a push towards her own destruction, but it made her feel guilty and _impossibly_ naive.

So she smiled at him instead and allowed herself to feel _thrilled _when concern gave way to open adoration as he came back with a crooked grin of his own.

"You were right. My timing could have been better."

"If it makes you feel better, my lady, it's a hollow victory at best," he was being mock chivalrous and he took her hand as if to kiss it, instead darting the tip of his tongue out to graze suggestively against her knuckles.

"I love you, Anders," the words were spoken before Brand even thought them, although she'd thought them more than a few times since yesterday. And it might have sounded heedless, she couldn't really tell, but she _meant _it and hoped that he realized this.

He _must_ have, from the way his face, positioned above her hand, brightened as if she'd caught him in a rejuvenation spell of her own, one that made him appear sky light and shining. While everything else opened up and lifted, his hazel eyes remained grounded, burning for her the way they had for the past week, maybe even the past year _or years _without her ever really knowing_._

He lowered her hand, returning it to her side as if it were a fragile thing and not a part of indestructible her.

"If if makes you feel better, my lady," his voice was intimately low as he took her waist and pulled her forward towards the carriage. "If it makes you feel better, I prefer _that_ to being right or...everything, really. _Everything_, everything."

And he meant it.


	23. Interim: Run

**A Note from SF:** So, as I blow right past 100,000 words, I need to thank everyone who has read even a single word of this story, to double thank everyone who has reviewed here or at the BioWare site and to triple thank BioWare for creating the Dragon Age universe and the characters therein. Without the game I never would have started this story and without the wonderful people I met because of this game, I never would have made it this far.

_Interim: Run_ is the first in a two part flashback about Awakening era/post Awakening Brand. Some of the dialogue is straight from the game, but I rumpled its fur a little to suit my purposes. I hope you like it.

* * *

The horse was a wedding present, a length of gleaming ebony prancing on feet that could run her far away from the stables at Redcliffe Castle. She pushed her fingers through a glossy mane that felt whisper soft against her skin, and touched the white star on his forehead, the only thing that could steal attention from the darkest eyes, shining and beautiful and dreaming of a _run_.

His name was Kadan, an ode to another strong creature in her life, a man who'd left her to return to his home. _From battle to battle, his existence an unceasing war._ The thought bumped wistfully at the edges of her mind.

"I see the look in your eyes, my dear," the elf appeared from the air and seemed almost as insubstantial. He leaned against the stall door and raked her over, golden eyes glittering with bemusement. "You are counting the strides in your head, mapping the route from here to the Frostback Mountains, over to Orlais."

"You could come with me," Brand stepped away from Kadan, her fingertips tracing along his side as she walked towards Zevran. She'd already become captivated by the strength of the animal, the sinewy power that lay coiled beneath his lustrous exterior. "Could you imagine the fun we'd have? The ruses and close-calls, the men and the women...the _treasure_?"

"How you tempt me," there was nothing _tempted_ about him as he smirked at her. He was a man immune to her charms. "I would not be so opposed to losing myself in a debauched existence with you. However, your handsome betrothed pays far better. I have been charged with keeping you out of trouble, no small task since you are seeming _particularly_ self-destructive these days."

Cheeks gone warm, Brand tried to forget the past few months which were a blur of balls, garden parties, and prowling darkened paths for any brigand foolish enough to mistake her for an easy target. The prowling and ensuing skirmishes were, by far, the most _fun_.

"But I'm a lady now. _Again_," she looked to Zev, but Zev was gone. Maybe. He could very well be hidden behind a column, or a bale of hay, or tucked in a shadow just outside her vision. Her gaze was drawn to a quiet corner and, after securing the gate to Kadan's stall, she crept towards the forgotten spot and a splintered box that was partially hidden behind broken harnesses and a pile of moldy horse blankets.

She saw her hand reaching for the lid of the crate, a sense of damp abandonment aching her bones, she blinked and was inside the castle, in a warmly lit room liberally draped with elaborate gowns of every fabric, embellishment and style.

It was the night before her wedding and her focus was on the _golem doll_.

_And you'll get your golem doll one of these days. I'll just wait until you're good and angry with me and then _boom_, golem doll will make everything better._

It looked a bit like Shale, stone rather than metal, with crystals embedded in its surface. Running her hands over its chest (imagining Shale's reaction to such impropriety) Brand smiled, despite herself, and imagined Alistair as a young boy with his toy. She'd never really _thought_ about his childhood, finding the idea of it unspeakably unfair. He would have been better off raised by a peasant family, farmers willing to squeeze him into their warm homes rather than an Arl who kept him in the stables and only tossed him scraps of affection. _And golem dolls._

She was tempted to storm to Eamon's quarters, to confront him about how he treated Alistair, for shipping him off to the Chantry. When Brand thought of Alistair as a child, she saw an odd duck of a boy- bright, warm, goofy. To sequester him, to sentence him to a lonely existence of Chantry-ordained manslaughter and lyrium addiction seemed unconscionable.

While Brand worked herself into a frothy rage at _Eamon_, she began to sob. And she began to sob because all that _indignation_ was absolutely pointless now. Alistair was gone, because of _her_ and _not_ Eamon. However much Eamon had failed him, she had failed him so much more.

Alistair was probably in Rivain or Antiva by then, being fawned over by women who made their livings helping handsome young runaways forget the reason they were running away. _This_ when, by all rights, he should be beside _her_, talking at her through the golem, trying his best to capture Shale's inimitable _voice_. It could be her wedding present to him, a minuscule token of affection that would seem insignificant when they realized they couldn't even bear to be apart on the night before their wedding.

_Silly romantic longings_, her fingers dug against her forehead as she thought of how very easy it was to _not_ be with Teagan. Closing her eyes against this reality, she opened them again to late morning sunlight drifting in through a high window. Her reflection stared back, her face still and pale above the delicately stitched bodice of her wedding dress. Chestnut waves, pinned back at the sides, tumbled over her shoulders and a glittering blue dragon pin was a single concession to who she was.

"Who _am_ I?"

A giggle sounded beside her and Leliana joined her in the mirror, as giddy and lovely as Brand _should _be. She wrapped her arms around Brand's shoulders in a comforting embrace, mouth close to her cheek as she whispered a rambling stream of words meant to spark _something_ in her friend's empty eyes.

"…and when I saw Teagan, I swore that no man has ever looked more excited to wed," Leliana kissed the top of Brand's ear, her lips incredibly soft. "He is a wonderful man and he _adores_ you. Soon you will be as happy with him as…"

"Where _is_ everyone?" Brand would not allow his name mentioned. Not today. And _definitely_ not after what she put herself through last night; her throat still ached from the effort of heartbreak. Without that pain to focus on, she realized what else she was missing. Her parents, her nan...Gilmore. Only Fergus remained. _Did I even really exist before Duncan took my hand and lead me to Ostagar? Do I even really exist _now_? _

She was being overdramatic; she _knew_ that, but she also knew she was trapped by a horrible decision, by an entire parade of horrible decisions in polished armor and stretching back to a night over a year ago when she let Duncan tear her away from her family. If she just could have _died_ like she was supposed to, then..._now you've gone too far_.

Brand was really starting to hate herself.

Somehow, even with the twinges of self-loathing and the flailing inner-adolescent who made every little annoyance feel like The End of The World, as if Brand hadn't just _dealt_ with that, she managed to make her way out of the castle and to the chantry in Redcliffe.

While she stagger-walked hand-in-hand with Leliana, Brand wondered, idly, how fast a bride could run in fancy Orlesian shoes, or if now wouldn't be the perfect time for the dead to rise again, and then the day was over; she astride her husband, her fingers gripping his hands which gripped her hips as she willed herself to a gasping climax.

The circle completed.

Not _everything_ about being married was bad.

The estate, for example, was _lovely_- an expanse of rolling green surrounding a modest stone manor. The servants awaited the arrival of their lord and his lady, expecting them to sweep in together like a couple in the throes of new love. Instead, Brand trailed Teagan, chatting excitedly to her hound about the fact that Teagan was _right_ and Rainesfere really _did_ have everything a retired mabari could possibly want.

Then the chamberlain had to go and ruin the mood by calling her Lady Guerrin twice in the span of one minute and asking _Teagan_ where _she'd_ like Charon to stay.

"Excuse me, Charon is _my_ mabari," Brand unclenched her teeth. "And, please, call me Brand."

"I beg your pardon, Lady Guerrin, but Bann Teagan is more familiar with the protocol here," the chamberlain had papery lips that pulled too tightly across outsized teeth and his eyes never _once_ looked in her direction.

"Rufus, Brand is right. She is allowed to make these decisions just as I am."

He was only trying to help, but she still wanted to snap a _thank you_, for the _permission_.

Her eyes turned to the rest of the staff lingering in the hall, all of them staring at her like she'd sprouted a second head. It wasn't the _oooh, hero_ staring to which she'd grown uneasily accustomed these past few months, and it wasn't the _Maker help us, it's the Warden_ cringe which was the day to day before the Blight ended. _This_ was _tell us what to cook tonight, and what you want to wear to dinner_ _because _that_ is not even an option_ mixed in a bit with _we thought a bann's wife would be a little more...wifely_.

The last time she'd been _this_ self-conscious was when Teagan had first seen her naked. She'd joked that life on the road had made her feral, but with judgemental eyes on her she felt the sting of that truth.

Two minutes into this whole Lady sodding Guerrin _thing_ and she was just not feeling any part of it.

That's why the letter from the First Warden came as such a _relief_. Teagan was set against her leaving for Amaranthine less than twenty-four hours after she'd arrived at her new home. It wasn't too hard to convince him, though, via a well-played duty card and the careful application of her body to his, _sex_ being pretty much the only part of "together" she could offer.

She departed the next morning, just Kadan and her alone. They traveled the first few miles away from Rainesfere at a canter before an exuberant smile blossomed across her face and she kicked him into a gallop and then a full-blown _run_.

* * *

The relief of being free and _back_ was an almost palpable thing.

Her escort, a pale young knight named Mhairi, kept looking at her with horrified adoration, conflicting emotions brightening her eyes and twisting at her lips. Ser Mhairi was a new recruit to the Wardens, and she was probably under the impression that the Joining gave one an almost psychosexual connection with the darkspawn, what with the way Brand threw out blocks and ripostes with a wide smile and yelps of undiluted joy.

Not that there was _anything_ to be happy about. The Vigil was under siege, the Wardens within unaccounted for and the keep's knights littering the lower and upper bailey, some dead and most dying. But even the injured brought Brand a certain amount of comfort as she cleared another area and barked orders for those able enough to move their fallen comrades to shelter and prepare them for medical attention.

_Purpose_ flowed through her limbs as she sank Duncan's dagger into the heart of a hurlock that tried to flank from her left and not even the infernal _churning_ of the taint within her could dampen this high.

With the exterior secure, Brand and Mhairi were able to move on to the Vigil courtyard. _This place is monstrous_ Brand blinked at a sudden wavering of adrenaline as the tiniest surge of _Howe_ hit at her. She didn't have much time to react as three shrieks materialized around them and she whirled back to action with a flurry of strikes and a showy finish as the final creature collapsed at her feet.

"Do you know this place at all?" The gate to the keep entrance was down, and the stairs to reach the release were blocked by a locked door. Mhairi shook her head, eyes wide and overwhelmed. She was tenacious, Brand could see that, but her bravery seemed watered down, like it was an _idea_ that gave her propulsion and not the reality at all.

Brand continued to check doors, finally finding one that gave beneath her hand. With a wild gesture to Mhairi, she flung herself into the unknown hallway to be greeted by a face full of _hot _and the familiar but sickening odor of scorched flesh.

Silhouetted against the steady stream of flame that poured from his palms was a tall, slender man in robes that were strikingly pristine considering he was ankle deep in charred darkspawn and mutilated templars. As one last hurlock jerked towards its fiery death, the man turned to greet the two women, shaking his hands out as if to cool them and obviously trying to strike the exact posture that would make him seem simultaneously impressive and _not_ like someone who was ankle deep in charred darkspawn and mutilated templars.

Although she should be concerned, a mage here _and duh, dead templars_ was highly suspect, Brand was more amused by the fact that he didn't know what to with his _hands_.

"Ah," at his waist, then by his side, then out in a shrugging gesture of _seriously, stop _looking_ at me like that_. "I didn't do it. Not that, well, I'm not _too_ upset. They all made some pretty funny gurgles when they went down. Hmm, that doesn't help my defense _at all_, does it? I'm pretty bad at the not incriminating myself. _Especially_ when I'm innocent."

He smiled hopefully.

"Did you kill all those darkspawn yourself?" Brand pointed her chin towards the smoldering corpses. "Im_pres_sive."

His hazel eyes brightened. "Of course," he was three notches above overconfident. "I mean, they helped a bit but were _quickly_ overwhelmed."

You_ know how it is_, his expression said. _Templars_.

"Once they died, I was able to," his fingertips ignited briefly and Mhairi jumped back in surprise. "They had me muzzled, so to speak. But now I'm not," he all but murmured this in a low, contemplative voice that held the slight undercurrent of _threat_. Then he returned to being a smidge too jovial. "_You_ can call me Anders, my lady. I am, of course, a mage. And, um, an apostate. Quite wanted, too. It would be _flattering_ if it didn't always end so _badly_."

"An apostate?" Mhairi latched onto this and moved closer to Brand. "What's an _apostate_ doing here?"

As if he'd not noticed her before, his attention went to the knight and his lips curved into a grin that was almost obscenely inviting. "Ooh, _you're_ new. I would have remembered flirting with someone as pretty as _you_."

"I don't care what you were. Or are," Brand spoke and he was riveted to _her_ now, as _that_ sentiment held promise.

"Even better. Pretty _and_ pragmatic. This is the best day of my life. Or, it would be, if it weren't for all the _darkspawn_. Speaking of..." he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "There are a lot left, I could always stick around, help you take care of them. Or you could, you know, let me go. Nothing wrong with that, really. They'll just send more templars to find me...I'm told I'm fun to hunt."

"Good thing it's no fun hunting a dead man. Which is, as far as _I'm_ concerned, what you are. Now run while you can," Brand was inclined to generosity. His offer to help seemed sincere enough and, the way his face went slack in genuinely stunned gratitude, he'd not been expecting much to come from it.

"_Really?_" His voice was almost squeaky, and he smiled a real smile for the first time since they'd met. She nodded, returning the grin, and his eyes darted away, his expression darkening but still remaining so _relieved_. "That's...darkspawn or no, this is _definitely_ the best day of my life. _Thank you_. Now, I'll just slip out the way you came in and nobody ever need know I was here. Good luck, by the way. With the..." his hands waved again and Mhairi started. No flames appeared, he was merely indicating the distant echoes of darkspawn snarling. "Maker knows _they_ deserve whatever death you can give them."

As good as his word, he was gone. Brand pushed forward, pausing to check the weapons that had fallen with the templars before shrugging and moving on to a maze of Vigil, and darkspawn, and trapped servants, and darkspawn, and _Oghren_...

"Hey! Look who's here, already running from marriage. You should have listened to me," he snorted off a chunk of flayed hurlock caught on the tip of his nose. "What did you last, three days?"

"I'm here under orders," Brand shifted guiltily. "What about _you_? New baby so bad that you have to resort to killing darkspawn for peace?"

"Heh, this is why I like you, Warden. You don't sodding play around," he leaned against the railing in front of him. "That's why, when Fergus told me you'd been made Commander of the Grey, I thought I'd join up. You were always the best leader I had; none of this 'Oghren, stop touching my arse' or 'Oghren, you can't possibly drink that much and still be fit to fight.' You _get_ me, and I want to be _had_."

"Being a Warden kind of sucks," Brand ignored Mhairi's gasp of _sacrilege_. "But you, of all people, know what you're getting yourself into. C'mon, we can talk more when there's less going on."

Within two minutes, Brand was confronting a new threat. She learned of it from a wounded man in the hallway, a recruit named Roland who knew Mhairi. He was delirious with pain, his face stiff and his eyes barely seeing as the taint seeped into his wounds. The knight was devastated by the sight of her friend as he slipped into oblivion and she promised vengeance with the purity of one who had no idea what _vengeance_ truly meant.

Brand was more concerned with the _talking darkspawn_ he'd mentioned, and then she was concerned with the sodding _mage_ who was back and standing on the terrace in front of her, precariously positioned near a corner around which Things Were Happening.

"So, just a thought," the mage turned and started herding them back towards the door. "You might want to be careful out there. The darkspawn in charge is here, the one who led the attack. Or, he was _earlier_."

She just stared at him for a long moment; he looked up and over, then blew at a strand of honey colored hair that'd fallen from his otherwise tidy ponytail.

"You're not running," she frowned_._ "_Why_ are you not running?"

"Listen, you know how earlier I said I was bad at not incriminating myself? I am also terrible at this whole 'fugitive from justice' thing. I was just on the road and I thought 'such a shame to leave now when things are so interesting'. So I came back. To help you. Because I thought you might need a hand with the killing. Obviously you _don't_, but I'm offering anyway," he paused and shifted his weight, eyes avoiding hers for a few seconds. "Also, did I say 'thank you'? I don't think I said 'thank you'...so _rude_, that."

"You..._did_."

"Ah, well. OK. So...let's go fight nasty darkspawn?"

She shook her head in befuddlement. What a _strange_ night.

"Your help will be appreciated," anything less would be impolite, anything more would be a lie.

"Thank me later," he was cocky again, angling his staff and blasting her with a minor healing spell that made her tingle. "I'm pretty good; trust me, you'll be glad that I came back."

Oghren made a mocking noise and Brand put her hand up before any exchanges could be made.

"We have more important things to deal with. You can tease him later," and she was _way _too right about the _important things_.

First it was The Withered (as if darkspawn weren't creepy enough without the wheezy, broken syntax and ability to reason), then dusting off the silver-haired man The Withered and his minions were about to kill before Brand and her troupe of uncomprehending oddballs rolled in and then it was "Mage, you need to _run_...oh, _Maker_. Is that Queen Anora coming up the road?"

It was.

They trailed down through corridors piled with darkspawn corpses and Brand almost got the giggles when Oghren kicked at one and deadpanned "Welcome to your new home, Commander. I hope you like the _decor_."

"Darkspawn are better than _Howes_." It was out of her mouth before she could control it and she cringed at how _petty_ it sounded.

"They aren't going to make you...ya'know...sleep in his _bed_, are they?"

Brand hadn't even thought about that possibility and it made her stumble. Oghren steadied her and the mage shot them a look of undisguised curiosity.

"Maker, I'll take a pillow to the stables before I go anywhere near that man's personal quarters," her stomach churned at the _thought_ and the moment from earlier, when she realized _this_ had belonged to the man who killed her family, came back and lit her behind the eyes. If it weren't for the nearness of outside and Anora, Brand might have allowed herself more grace. Unfortunately, she needed to be _commanding_ for the queen.

As if reading her thoughts, "I've never seen a _queen_ before," the mage was walking carefully to avoid stepping on cracks in the stone. "Will she be in furs and a jeweled crown? Oooh, I heard she's pretty."

There were few things that Brand wanted to think of less than Anora and her _prettiness_.

But there it was, a few minutes later, staring down at her with its cool, sapphire eyes and offering her a tight smile while she kneeled in the mud.

It turned out to be a bad encounter all around. The Orlesian Wardens were all dead or missing, according the silver-haired man who called himself Varel and was seneschal of Vigil's Keep. Anora sneered a delicate sneer and put the taking care of this little mess on Brand's shoulders.

Brand's excitement from earlier was waning and it died outright when the queen pressed a delicate hand to her mouth and murmured something about being glad her father had been called to Weisshaupt shortly after the Blight ended.

_Glad_ and _Loghain_ should never exist in the same space, as far as Brand was concerned, but she kept her mouth shut and nodded along, and almost had another giggle fit when Oghren made a _sex_ joke in front of _Anora_, but that was undone by the inexplicable templar woman on Anora's elbow, a gaunt woman with eyes like cold, black fire, who called Anders a murderer.

And _that_ hardly seemed fair. He _had_ refused to run, after all. Not so much the trait of a coldblooded killer.

Brand half-expected Anora to order him taken into custody. Instead, she deferred to the Commander of the Grey, the one with the power to save sad-eyed mages who looked as though they already felt the noose around their neck and were now just waiting for the platform to give.

"I hereby Conscript this mage into the Grey Wardens," she tried to glare at him, for putting her in this position, but he had that look again of overwhelming and open relief.

The templar challenged the conscription and Anora all but waved her off before summarizing Brand's objectives for the coming months.

Rebuild the Wardens.

Figure out what those pesky darkspawn were up to.

Rule Amaranthine as its arlessa and...

"Wait, _what_? This land belongs to the Grey Wardens," Brand was _not_ here for another title, but Varel confirmed the Arlessa stint with a hint of mirth. Despite herself, she was starting to like him.

With Brand reluctantly in charge, the queen seemed well pleased that the situation at the Vigil was well under control.

"Better you than the Orlesians, anyway," Anora turned on her heel and then was gone.

Brand remained rooted in the spitting rain, mentally sifting through the myriad tasks ahead of her as _purpose _sat down and made itself at home.

Life was about to begin again.

* * *

Brand had not been this exhausted since the night of the battle in Denerim, when lifting her swords, usually as easy and automatic as breathing, sent screams of agony through every muscle in her arms and back.

She mentioned this to Oghren, who was seated next to her at the great table in the dining hall. Besides them, Anders was the only other body in the room.

Mhairi, bless her very real enthusiasm for the Wardens, had died during the Joining.

Although she'd not planned on it, the sight of Mhairi's motionless body on the floor of the main hall had made Brand feel oddly protective of her other two recruits, even the one she had been urging to _run_ up until the moment his lips touched the side of the Joining Chalice and he was doomed forever.

It felt unfair to do this to him, to trade his desire for freedom for invisible chains.

She'd stayed up and watched the men sleep, leaving only to visit a ghost-faced Howe in the Vigil prison. He'd stopped by to kill her. Garavel, the captain of her guard, urged her to hang him in retaliation. Even the Howe seemed to be leaning that way.

So she freed him instead; Garavel, Varel and the Howe staring at her like she'd gone crazy. She'd not responded to their silent accusations, instead returning to her vigil between an old friend and a new _something_ and wondered what Duncan had done to pass the time while she recovered from _her_ Joining.

Fortunately, they'd both stirred at sunrise, their eyes haunted by dreams she knew would probably _always_ haunt them and she tried not to feel too guilty. Oghren had wanted this and Anders had refused to leave.

Now, at dinner, Oghren wanted her to talk about killing the Archdemon. Actually, he wanted one particular detail.

"And the sodding dragon snatched her up, and she flailed her arms like _that_ would do her any good. And it sort of held her up and just looked at her...like it couldn't believe that the squishy little nothing it was about to crush thought she could win. Then Brand..." he chortled. "I mean the _Commander_ got a real great idea..."

Brand poked at her lamb and pea stew and tried not to choke on the smell.

"Uh, Commander? That's your cue. Tell Sparklefingers here what you did."

She dragged her attention to Anders, who was sprawled out in his chair, surrounded by three empty bowls and working on a plate of cheese and crackers. His brow scowled in response to the nickname and Brand was _fairly_ certain he didn't want to hear about

"I stabbed the Archdemon in the eye," Anders dropped his cracker and _that_ perked her up a bit. "I stabbed the Archdemon in the eye all the way up to the hilt of my sword, dragon blood spewing everywhere, and then it dropped me. I broke my back, apparently, but I was _free_ and well enough to finish the job."

"You ...in the _eye_?" His hands were now clasped across his mouth. "That's _disgusting_."

Oghren laughed, "You know, wearing a dress the way you do, you might want to forgo the delicate sensibilities thing. Might give people the wrong idea."

And that was her cue to turn in for the night.

"I haven't slept for days," she pinched Oghren's arm. "You _behave_. You're _officially_ my responsibility now."

He looked both chastened and vaguely excited that he'd get to be alone with the mage. Brand had been policing their fighting all day, now he'd get some uninterrupted snark time.

The room she'd chosen was at the far end of the living quarters, a corner room that Varel swore hadn't seen a Howe for years. It wasn't the largest chamber in the keep, but it had a spacious, comfortable bed, room for a desk, and plenty of light that poured in through windows on two walls.

Not that she was thinking about anything but _sleep_ as she stripped to her underwear and sank beneath a pile of covers.

She was so bone tired that she didn't even dream. She also failed to realize when she was joined in the night, _that_ discovery made the following morning when her eyes flickered open and she found herself confronted with a blond head occupying her other pillow.

For one heart-stopping, _delirious_, moment, she thought it was a different blond head.

It was way too early in the day to get _murderously_ angry, although she came close when she peeked beneath the covers and saw a stretch of skinny back and bare buttocks.

Her first impulse was to kick him to the floor, or pour a pitcher of water over his head. Then she decided to confront the likely culprit behind this ridiculous situation, spilling out of bed and pulling on a dressing gown before Anders could intuit that she was up and mostly naked.

He seemed the type who could sense these things.

Oghren's room was down the hall from her own and he was, suspiciously, awake, dressed and _reading a book_ when she banged furiously against his door, which was already unlocked and partially open.

"Good morning, Commander," he took a deep breath. "I think it's going to be a be_yooo_tiful day."

"Why is there a naked mage in my bed?" Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest and she knew she looked absolutely insane. "Did you dare him to do this? Or did he make the mistake of passing out and get _put_ there?"

Oghren looked one inch away from bursting with laughter. Brand kicked him in the shin as hard as she could with her bare feet.

"I'm _married_," she hissed. "And I'm his _Commander_."

"Oh, so you're all about propriety now? Lady We All Fight Together We Might As Well Be Comfortable Seeing Each Other Naked," Oghren sniffed, then shrugged. "I didn't do anything. He was sodding wasted when I went to bed last night. Maybe he had a bad dream and needed his mommy."

"That naked thing was a coping mechanism to deal with all the outdoor bathing and...you might have a point," she was still fuming. "I swear to the Maker, Oghren, if I find out you had a hand in this, I'm commissioning a set of nugskin armor that you'll have to wear for the next _year_."

She stormed back to her room, slamming the door behind her. The noise roused the mage, his arms stretching indolently above him as he yawned, nearly kicking the covers off in the process.

"So help me, if I see any..._bit_ of you, I will..." she couldn't finish as he sat up, wiping at his eyes as if he were under water and even the smallest movement required so much _effort_. "What are you _doing_?"

He looked taken aback. "Uh, waking up. You could have been a little more gracious."

And she didn't know if he was still drunk or newly brain-damaged because, "More _gracious_? You're lucky I didn't knock you to the floor, or set you on fire, or..."

"Stab me in the eye?" he shuddered, then raked his fingers through hair that fell in tangles to his pale shoulders. "That's why I'm here, maybe. I got to thinking about the whole eye _thing_," he gestured to his face. "That stuff freaks me out, to be honest. Eye stuff. I like my eyes...and the things I _see_ with them."

The way he said that last part forced her to mentally confirm that her dressing gown was completely closed.

"So you're awake. Now get out of my bed and get out of my _room_."

He looked around, as if there might be anyone else in there with them, and smiled a sheepish smile that turned positively wolfish at the edges. "But...I'm _naked_."

This was absolutely _not_ an embarrassed _but what will my comrades think if they see me in the altogether _"I'm naked." This "I'm naked" was a brazen _half the work has been done for us, so we might as well take advantage while we can_.

Fortunately, a year with Zevran and Oghren had given her an uncanny ability to feign obliviousness to such implications. Still, it shot _something_ up her spine and she was loosening the belt of her gown before her brain could adequately react.

Anders' expression when he realized what she was doing _almost_ made her laugh. His face flashed from sleepily seductive to rapturous disbelief and then disappeared completely when her robe landed across his head.

"Put that on, then _get out of my room_." By the time he'd pulled the garment from his face, her arms were crossed protectively over her chest. He muttered a barely audible _blast_ and swung his legs off the bed, carelessly tugging the gown together. It was tight in the shoulders, but he managed to get the important parts covered without incident and he stumbled towards her on unsteady feet.

"I didn't touch you, or _look_, or anything," he was being defensive, not apologetic. "I was drunk, and didn't feel much like _nightmares_. I'm not sure what happened to my _clothes_."

"I don't care _why_ you were here, but if it happens again, I will...I will recruit two templars and put them on full-time Anders duty. _Full-time_. It'll make your quarters in the tower seem like a safe haven."

Frowning with his entire face, lower lip jutted out, "That's just _cruel_." He stomped past.

She heard the door open and then a quiet _Maker_. There was no follow-up sound of door shutting and she was readying to turn and slam it closed herself when she felt hands on her bared back and

"How did I not _sense_ this?"

With a jerk, she pulled away, suddenly aware that she was almost completely _naked_ and there was a strange man in nothing but an ill-fitting dressing gown touching her, then she saw his face and he appeared utterly horrified.

"What? What's wrong?"

Now it was his turn to act like _she_ was the one who'd suffered a blow to the head.

"What's _wrong_? Can you not _feel_? You have a contusion the size of ...of something _huge_ and it looks infected."

Her shoulder was stiff yesterday, but it wasn't anything to get worked up over. When she tried to say this to Anders, he blinked in mortified disbelief.

"Commander, I am a _healer_. I have seen some disgusting injuries from backfired spells in the tower; third-degree burns, exploded limbs, advanced frostbite...this is _definitely_ something to get worked up over. I just...I should have _sensed_ it. Does it not _hurt_?"

She shook her head, then shrugged. "Maybe? I'm not...I don't always feel pain like norm..._other_ people."

He had her sit to facilitate the examination of the wound with his fingers; she could tell by the faint tingle of magic against her skin that he was checking the extent of the injury. His entire demeanor had changed from anything she'd seen before, face serious, eyes focused, mouth set in a firm line. It was a relief, actually, that he seemed to be extremely competent at the mage thing. She'd only seen him in one fight, and so much had been going on that it'd been difficult to tell how anyone else was performing.

It would look pretty bad if she made him a Warden and he was little more than a man who wore robes and could shoot fire from his fingertips.

"Let me run to my room, I can clean this up and get a compress on it to help with the infection."

He left and she pulled open her pack, yanking on a pair of trousers and then winding a length of linen around her breasts. It might interfere with his tending to her, but she was feeling progressively less comfortable with being so exposed.

After he returned, it didn't take long for him to get the contusion covered. He then rested his palm over the bandage and she was encased with warmth and light as her lungs felt as though they'd been pumped full of the cleanest air she'd ever breathed.

She prayed that it was a _spell_ causing this reaction.

"This complicates things, you know," she started when he said this, and pulled away.

"What _complicates_ things?"

"If you can't feel pain, I can't sense it," he slouched next to her, looking thoughtful. "Is there something wrong with you?"

"Probably...I mean," she felt herself turn pink. He really did _not_ need her psychological _stuff_ dumped on him. "Not _physically_. I just trained myself to _use_ pain. Like a weapon or...magic of a sort?"

His brow furrowed, "Like _magic_? _Blood_ magic?"

"Nooo," Brand hated explaining this, because even _she_ wasn't entirely certain how it worked. "I found a book in my grandfather's library when I was young, a book about how, by studying the way dragons behave when injured, people were able to turn _their_ pain into something that could harm others. There are other bits that I learned first, like how to, um, absorb life energy as it escapes from a dead being, but the sheer amount of _battle_ over the past eighteen months helped me develop the connection between pain and adrenaline."

"I've never heard of anything like that before," Anders had gone pale. _Paler_. "Can you not disconnect? Or are you addicted to not hurting."

Brand stared at her hands, that second question closer to truth than she'd realized before he asked it. "I _can_ disconnect but...it works on more than just _physical_ pain. And it helps me when I have to be up for two or three days straight, fighting darkspawn, accounting for the dead, and all that."

"It _can't_ be healthy to be a walking wound all the time just so you can pretend you're superhuman," he looked almost angry. "You traveled with Wynne, yes? I can't believe she let you get away with that."

"She didn't know how much I used it until I was able to kill the Archdemon with a broken back," Brand couldn't believe how easily that shot out. "And she's not with me _now_."

"Well, I _am_," from the way his eyes went wide with involuntary surprise, Anders couldn't believe how easily _that_ shot out. "Medicine isn't my strength, but it's not bluster to say that I'm probably a better healer than Wynne. But I can't help you if I don't know you're hurt. For now, I'll just have to watch you, but you need to only use this ability in battle or quit using it altogether."

And it was a testament to how serious he was that she momentarily forgot he still wore her robe as she nodded in mute agreement.

"Now, get out of my room," she attempted to sound cheerful. "Get out before Oghren comes by and gets all jealous that I've already seen you naked and he hasn't."

Anders' eyebrow shot up, and he smirked. "You _looked_?"

"From the _back_. I had to know the full potential awkwardness of this situation."

He laughed and stood up, robe slipping from his shoulder as he sashayed across the room to the door. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling.

"Anders," she remained on the bed, allowing the ache of her shoulder to grow as strength seeped out of her muscles. He turned and, if he felt the shift in her, didn't comment. "Thank you."

He _posed_ in the doorway, lips twisted into an arrogant grin, "Didn't I tell you that you'd be grateful I came back? I bet now you're pretty relieved I didn't run when you gave me the opportunity. _Opportunities_."

In all honesty, Brand wasn't certain she would call what she felt at that moment _relief_.


	24. Interim: Bryce

**Content warning from SF: **Section 5 contains some details that might be uncomfortable for any readers with issues regarding pregnancy or childbirth (especially problematic pregnancies or childbirth).

* * *

1.

Vigil's Keep was devastated, the outer wall crumbling and whole sections of the main structure damaged in a siege that Brand had _not_ foreseen and, this would not win any Wardening awards, had allowed to happen without her interference.

Worst of all, two of her Wardens were dead. Well, one was missing and the other had already been dead and was now just _gone_. But they were people she cared about. Except for Justice, who was a spirit and...

_Dammit_, Teagan was staring at her now, his blue eyes hard and as angry as she'd ever seen them. It was her turn to talk, but her brain couldn't make talking happen at the level that this conversation required. She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the last thing he said, she could _hear_ so it must be in there _somewhere_ and she hit a wall of _embarrassing_ and _I was so worried_ and _you killed a templar_.

Eyes flying open, "The templar _attacked_ me. She would have slaughtered me had I not defended myself! I tried to reason with her, but she only wanted Anders."

"The mage worth more to you than your reputation?" Teagan scowled. He hadn't accused her of anything _yet_, but he was so unable to comprehend the situation that the potential for accusations was high.

"Protecting an innocent man and one of my Wardens from a fanatical _nutjob_ was worth more than my reputation, yes," Brand couldn't believe _Teagan_, of all people, was reacting like this. "I thought you were sympathetic to Circle mages ever since Connor was sent to the tower?"

"Although the Chantry might disagree, that's not the issue here and you know it," he turned away, his brow crumpling with concern and Brand braced herself for one thing, but he threw something else entirely. "You're staying with the Wardens because you don't want to be with me."

This was sad, incredibly so, but it wasn't _bad_ and Brand felt relief followed by guilt followed by, "Teagan...I'm staying with the Wardens because they _need_ me. Look at this place! It's in ruins, and there's only five of us...and..._Maker_, I'm not ready to be a wife."

She sagged against the corner of her bed, pressing her cheek against the wooden post and fighting the tears that threatened to spill. For months she'd been all over the arling, battling darkspawn, werewolves, bandits, _trees_ and while she'd been exhausted every single second that she wasn't unconscious, she'd never been this _unhappy_.

"Then why did you marry me? I could have saved you the time the wedding took out of your life," his voice rasped with bitterness and he watched her from over his shoulder.

"I married you because I _like_ you, Teagan. I thought...I thought being with you would make me feel normal after not feeling normal for so long," she drew a shaky breath and won the fight with her tear ducts. "I _care_ for you, you have to know that."

"Do I?" His lips curved down and he faced her full on. "And yet you run like you don't care about me at all."

The bad part about this was that she'd been excited when he rode up, pleased to see his easy smile and feel his eyes flicker appreciatively from her face to her body and back. She'd even thrilled at the kiss he laid on her, in front of _everyone_; something that might have been awkward made wonderful because he meant it.

She should have let the kissing continue once they made it to her chamber, he _seemed_ eager enough, but she couldn't let him have her without knowing that he wasn't really _having_ her.

"I'm sorry, Teagan. I don't know what else to say," '_J__ust kidding!' might be nice right about now_. "This isn't a permanent appointment, we can see where things stand in six months...or a year? Give me some time to think about what I want, because what I don't want is to go back to Rainesfere with you _now_ and make both our lives miserable forever."

"If I leave here alone, then there will be nothing left for you to think about," his expression softened. "I want you to come with me, because I believe we could be happy if you'd _try_. But I'm not going to force you to _pretend_. That's not fair to either of us."

Brand stared at the man in front of her, her _husband_, and attempted with every ounce of feeling in her body to conjure up a single flicker of _need_ for just him. When it was a need for distraction, or stability, the flicker was there...but _now_?

There was nothing.

And Teagan _knew_ it.

He handled the non-news with graceful resignation, moving towards the door as she blocked his exit. Startled by her body between him and the hallway, he pulled back.

"You're not leaving _now_, are you? I'm not about to turn you out into a rainy night." Then, stupidly unable to let the awkwardness just be awkwardness, "You could even stay here with me, if you were...of a mind."

That kiss earlier _had_ been pretty fantastic.

He knew _that_, too, and relented after a moment's hesitation, perhaps hoping to dissuade her from their separation.

Brand lured him to her bed, laying him down so she could lead him to the end as sweetly as she knew how, with her tongue, her hands and her hips and _not_ her mind or her heart at all.

_Those_ things were closed, or in a foreign country, or thinking about rebuilding the Vigil, or quietly set on spending more time with an orange and white kitten and the smirky mage who gave it a name that was equal parts dignified and ridiculous.

The fact that she was thinking about a _cat_ with her husband beneath her was preposterous but...there it was, nonetheless.

It remained there a few weeks later, when Teagan was gone and the stars fell overhead- over _her_ head and the heads of a smirky mage and his feline. Ser Pounce-a-lot was newly out of that awkward catten stage, almost completely grown into his paws and shifting his attentions between his two favorite humans, affection doled out to whichever one could draw dried mackerel from the pack between them the fastest.

Brand told herself that _this_ was ok. Teagan had left the morning after his arrival, his fingers twisting the edges of his cloak as he hesitantly mentioned _Grand Cleric_ and _annulment_. She asked him to give it a few months, to let her think things through and to, at the very least, help him with the process.

_Anders_ had plans later that evening with a maid named Hazel, or Henrietta, or Harper. She was small and blonde and seemed like she'd be a lot more fun than Brand, whose only design on a rare night off was to sprawl out on the roof of the Vigil and watch stars quit the sky.

"Do you know where they go when they fall?" Anders was perhaps too close to her, stretched out on his back and there was a whole _world_ around them, she was uncertain why the sense of him had to be so focused on _her_.

"Anywhere they want. Sometimes even Ferelden, although _that_ must be quite the letdown," another flickered and streaked across her vision. "I have a sword made out of starmetal, you know. Forged just for me. It's big and glowy."

"I've never seen you use it. Although big and glowy seems more _my_ thing than yours."

And that took her back, to dark hazel eyes that shone with envy when she'd unveiled Starfang, complete with supplemental _whoosh_ for effect. The sword had been his from the moment he touched it, and would never perform as well for anyone else.

She realized that tears were welling, unbidden and unstoppable. Then Anders was up on his elbow, now _definitely_ closer than he should be as the warmth radiating from his skin made her ache in a way that was _far_ from ok. For a long moment, she stared away from the man beside her as tension drew them into their own little pocket of _electricity _and she sensed his hand reaching for her and half-expected a caress.

Instead it was a sort of _jab_, right on the cheekbone, followed by..._healing_.

This made her _laugh_, from her stomach and enough to turn her tears to joy or something similar.

Because, of course, this was _Anders_. He had lines for days, could seal an inch-deep gash with a flick of his wrist, but there was no glib come-on for a crying commander, nor any spell that would mend the hidden but still-festering wound deep within her heart. All he could do, in this situation, was make her _laugh_.

He fell back down beside her, sighing contentedly while her merriment subsided.

For several minutes they watched the sky in silence, enjoying the freedom, the cool night air pressing down against them, and the way everything felt slightly unreal but undeniably _nice_.

"What about Henrietta?" Brand's cheeks were still slightly stiff with dried tears.

"Henrietta? Wait, it's _Hannah_," he didn't sound too positive of that. "Or was it _Harper_...maybe Hannah was the seamstress' daughter...What about her?"

"Aren't you supposed to meet her? You don't want to keep her waiting, you know. She has access to things that could make your life deeply unpleasant," Brand put her arms behind her head and turned to watch him. "Fergus flirted with a maid once and she liked to never forgive him. Used to do all sorts of unspeakable things to his bedclothes to give him hives."

He smiled into the darkness, "From the way you and Oghren talk about him, I suspect that your brother and I might get along quite well. You, on the other hand are trying to get rid me, aren't you?"

"Maybe I'm just trying to protect your reputation," her tone was light.

"I didn't even think about _that_. Sometimes I forget I'm not at the tower and there are still women around who don't know better than to avoid me," he met her gaze over the space between them. "I should go if I want this to last longer than a week."

With remarkable grace, he got to his feet, gathering a petulant Pounce and the pouch of dried fish. Brand remained on the roof, and didn't hold it against him that he left without saying good-bye.

Not long after his departure, she felt a cold nose press against her dampening cheek and she sat up, pulling the cat into her lap.

"Mrawr?"

"You won't tell him I started crying again, will you, Ser Pounce-a-lot?"

He narrowed his golden eyes in response, his head ducking against the palm of her hand to urge her attention down his neck.

"Mewf." _Scratch me where I itch and I'll keep any secret you can throw at me._

But she had nothing more to share. She was merely glad for the company.

* * *

2.

"What do you _mean_ you don't think it's anything else?" Brand's voice was commanding now; she even paced the way she'd seen Loghain pace once, at the edge of camp while he went over tactics for their upcoming battle in Denerim. Then she slipped into something more desperate. "This...this is _impossible_. Isn't it? I was told it could never happen."

The petite woman in front of her, with dark and indifferent eyes, had been listening to variations on this freak-out for over twenty years.

"Have you had sex in the past two months?" The mage watched her expectantly, and Brand cringed in response to the question."I'll assume that's a yes. Despite what you may have been told, that's all it takes."

Brand stopped pacing, falling back onto one of the empty beds in the infirmary, stretched out to stare at the ceiling. There were no answers there, but it calmed her stomach a bit. She'd already churned out breakfast in two parts, she had no desire to see lunch again.

"What can I do?"

"What do you mean?" The woman's _Fiona_ voice went up in surprise. "You..._wait_. Seven or eight months and then the _real_ fun begins."

Brand found the edge in Fiona's voice alarming. She'd introduced herself as a specialist in this area, yet she exhibited no warmth or compassion for the...situation at all.

Not that Brand was doing much better on that front. She'd been in a state of _nonono_ for the past two days. That's when Zevran, sick of having his boots burgled on, forced her to talk to Anders, who hadn't spoken to her since they'd all had a moment of _ahhh_ and Brand realized that maybe she shouldn't have sent her husband off quite so enthusiastically.

Trying to avoid any sudden lurches, Brand sat up, "I mean, what can I _do_? What happens to Wardens when they have children? Will I be kicked out of the order? Merely decommissioned? Stationed at Weisshaupt? And will the child be _tainted_?"

Fiona's eyes flashed with sympathy before going cold.

"The taint cannot be passed onto offspring, the children of Wardens are completely normal. As for your other concerns, previous Firsts have required that all Wardens who have children either leave the order or give up the child," she hesitated for a moment as if weighing the wisdom of sharing the next bit of information. "I don't think _you_ have to worry about that, though."

This did little to relieve her, "Why don't _I_ have to worry?"

"The First Warden needs you. Every man, woman and child in Thedas knows your name _and_ your story."

"Do _you_?"

"Yes, yes, I know all about the Hero of Ferelden," there was an undeniable chill to the elf's tone. "Ullan has pinned his hopes for the future of the order on you. I hope you like pressure."

_That's not what I was talking about, the hero stuff_.

"Don't call me that again. I betrayed a comrade, in my efforts, someone who fought as hard as I did and is forgotten,"_ This is just like the nausea, only verbal_. Fiona's brows drew down, and there was something suddenly terrible and familiar about her expression. "It makes it hard for me to consider myself a _hero_. I only allow it at all because it seems to bring people comfort."

Brand left the infirmary before the mage could respond, her focus on trying to _not_ think about several things. Things like the comrade she mentioned, or the husband she'd need to summon, or the disappointment she felt when it was Zevran who awaited her outside and not…anyone else.

* * *

3.

Teagan arrived a month after she wrote him with news of her pregnancy, and there were no welcoming kisses in front of everyone. As a matter of fact, he needed convincing to even share a bedchamber with her.

It was over six weeks before they had an actual conversation, Brand busying herself with an inventory of the keep and Teagan the day to day business with Varel. They awoke at different times, ate in different places and she often crawled into bed hours after he'd fallen asleep. One evening she slipped into their room, and longed to slide in beside him and try to fit herself against his chest, to see if any solace or contentment could be found in his arms.

She was lonely, but she couldn't make herself force the issue. It was what she'd chosen, after all, the Wardens over her marriage.

So she threw herself into inventorying, which was possibly the saddest thing in the _world_. It kept her mind occupied, however, and was a better way to spend days than thinking, or worrying, or _wanting_.

According to Varel, never had such an exhaustive count of potatoes been done by a member of nobility. Brand, cheeks pink, told him to just wait until he got the numbers from the _rice bins_.

There were some days when Zevran helped her, whistling cheerfully or regaling her with tales from Antiva, many of which she'd already heard in less glorious detail. On others, Sigrun would stop by and not help so much as go crazy for whatever oddities were unearthed during the process of digging through the endless crates of _what in the world_ that filled the mazelike tunnels of Vigil's Keep.

One afternoon, Brand was almost up to her waist in broken decor that had probably been gathered after the initial darkspawn attack the night she arrived. Buried beneath the refuse was a box containing a packet of letters and handsome locket bearing the Howe family crest.

Her first inclination was to burn the letters; nothing of Howe's could possibly interest her. However, something caught her eye before she could count them amongst the trash.

Her father always had a peculiar way of writing, his letters slanted oddly and sometimes appearing backwards.

_Maker, Bryce. It's like I married an ill-educated farm boy and not the son of a teryn. It's a good thing you didn't have to depend upon letters to bear the burden of our courtship._

Brand's heart stopped when she saw her father's unmistakable hand on the outside of the top envelope, her thumb running over the _Rendon_ as tears filled her eyes.

She could not bring herself to read the letter, or any others that might lie beneath it. Instead, she held it against her chest and _sobbed_.

That was the first time she felt the baby move, a sympathetic nudge as if it could sense her heartache, the sudden need to be called _pup_ and the desire to talk to someone who would never leave her, or hate her or _hide_. She knew the kicking would happen at some point, Oriana had spent five months reaching for the closest hand to hold against her stomach as if Oren fretting within her was interesting after the first twenty times. Even now that it was her own child making itself known, Brand was more impressed with the _timing_ than anything else.

It made her realize, too, that she couldn't hide forever. Eventually there would be a living creature that belonged to her _and_ Teagan, and she was _not_ ok with the idea of her son or..._it's a boy_, something breathed within her as certain as anything. She was _not_ ok with the idea of her _son_ being raised by two people who treated each other with stony indifference.

Setting aside the letters, she decided to seek out her husband and found him in the library with Nathaniel and Anders, the former animatedly detailing the months he'd spent in the wilds of the Free Marches surviving on his own and eating only that which he captured himself. Anders appeared as if he might spontaneously combust from boredom, although he was genuinely excited for the first split second that he saw her. _Nate must be very dull indeed if it could make him forget his self-imposed Brand ban._

Teagan's mood went the opposite way of Anders', from jovial to terse as he excused himself to see what in the world his wife could want from him.

What she wanted was an _effort _and she was more than willing to beg forgiveness, to work for it herself.

"Come with me to our room," she whispered this, and his eyes darted to Nathaniel and Anders who were _flagrantly_ eavesdropping. "I want to..._talk _to you."

For a moment, he seemed receptive to her command. Then his shoulders pulled back, and his arms went across his chest in muted insolence.

"I have meetings all afternoon that I cannot afford to miss," his voice was carefully polite, but distant. "We can have this proposed discussion another time."

_That_ was their conversation. It would be weeks before they had another even half as engaging. Or as civil.

Brand returned to the lonely task of sorting through the debris of someone else's life, wondering if her uncanny ability to ruin good things would extend itself to her son.

Or would _Bryce_ be the exception?

* * *

4.

Three months later, she was officially over pregnancy. The only clothes that fit her were horrible smock dresses that made her feel swaddled in burlap, and the new and unfamiliar weight she carried threw off her balance to the point where she'd taken to using hidden staircases so nobody could see her careen up them like a drunken hurlock, sometimes even gasping for breath as if it were battle and not simple_ movement_.

Food was what _really_ killed her, though. It was all either too disgusting to even see, much less smell or eat, or she would suddenly want to move into the larder and take up _consuming_ full time. This latter feeling usually hit at ungodly hours of the night.

That evening, or rather morning, she awoke to find herself craving _lichen_. Oghren and Sigrun were already ridiculing her lichen cravings, they'd really give it to her if they could see her digging into a mess of cold lichen porridge drizzled with honey. She had her elbows planted on the table and everything, as if something could happen and her bowl of disgusting might run away from her or be stolen by a dining room gnome.

"Andraste's sword. What are you _eating_, Commander?"

Or _Anders_.

"Lichen porridge. With honey," she stared at him defiantly. "It's _absolutely_ as revolting as it sounds."

He took a seat catty-corner from her and began picking at his wedge of pie.

"Dare I ask _why_ you're eating it?"

"Because if I don't, I might end up devouring my own clothes, and _he_," she gently poked her swollen stomach, "will flail around until I'm bruised from the inside out."

His eyes traveled from her face to her midsection, and his mouth pulled at the corner as he lost himself in thought.

"What did you say?" He jerked to meet her gaze.

"Nothing, I was just making jokes about lichen," Brand felt mentally stretched and hyperactive while Anders was oddly subdued. "What are _you_ doing?"

For some reason _this _caught him off guard.

"I'm eating _pie_?" Then his expression turned to absolute bafflement when she was forced to cover her mouth to stifle the ensuing _gales _of laughter.

It took her _minutes_ to calm down. She pushed her nearly empty bowl away and fixed him with bright eyes.

"I miss you, Anders," honest and plain, as if he'd made any _real_ contribution to her giddiness. "May I please have a bite of pie?"

The mage, who had not reacted _at all_ to the first thing she said, nudged his plate towards her and stood up.

"Take the rest, I'm really too tired to eat." He stalked off, Pounce appearing from nowhere to follow, offering Brand an apologetic glance over his shoulder as he hurried out of the dining room after his human.

She watched them leave before turning to the pie in silence, elbows on the table and the air around her impossibly heavy with a sense of embarrassed confusion.

* * *

5.

The rain had been falling for days.

Brand sat by the window in her quarters, the backsplash from the downpour speckling her bared forearms with flecks of cold and distorting the world beyond.

She'd grown worried in the night, about the settlements along the rivers below the Vigil. This past month had already been unseasonably wet, and the plains were prone to flooding even with normal precipitation. If this current weather did not soon pass, the crops might be ruined and the livestock carried off to sea.

For the first time in months, she'd taken breakfast with Varel and her husband, trying not to lose her stomach over the smell of Varel's eggs. Teagan studiously ignored her until she began talking about a flood when she was fifteen that had nearly obliterated most of the holdings throughout the Faravel Plains.

"Howe did nothing, my father's men managed to save some of the farmers, but those they did rescue lost their homes and their livelihoods," she paused to take a bite of toasted bread, the bland taste and comforting odor settling her nausea. "With all the damage done over the past year, between the Blight, the war and the darkspawn, the arling can't afford to _not_ be proactive."

Teagan stopped pretending she didn't exist long enough to agree, and she even detected an undercurrent of admiration as he asked Varel what the seneschal felt would be the wisest course of action.

_This_ was decided for them within the hour, when a rider for Bann Eddelbrek arrived with word that the Bann's wife was in labor and her midwife stranded on the wrong side of a washed out bridge. Only minutes later, Ser Norwood, a knight under Bann Flatley, came with word that Blaketon would need to be evacuated within the next day or all would be lost to mudslides.

So, as the rain came down in such quantities that the even the stones of the Vigil seemed saturated, Teagan left with the Vigil's knights, Wardens and Fiona, who would be attending to Lady Eddelbrek's birth in the absence of a midwife.

It was a decision that left Brand with only Varel, the keep staff and her own midwife. Varel was not entirely pleased with this situation.

"I'll be fine," Brand shot her gaze to Fiona in a silent bid for support. The older woman nodded her agreement.

"The Commander is showing no labor signs herself and Anatolia is more than capable of handling the birth on her own should anything happen. It seems that may not be the case with Lady Eddelbrek, so a healer _might_ be necessary."

The seneschal relented and the party took off, the gloom consuming them before they'd even reached the first gate. It felt surreal to watch them leave; years had passed since she'd last stayed behind while men rode off without her.

Shaking away a sudden sense of unease, she made her way to the small den off the main hall. Seldom used, it was the perfect place to awkwardly curl up and read through new correspondences without fear of being interrupted when she inevitably dozed off, letters sliding from her lap to the floor and the world around her ceasing to exist.

She dreamed of darkspawn emerging, as if carved from the shadows that clung to the edges of the den, to surround her in a tight circle, their strange, lidless eyes gleaming dully in the dim afternoon light as filthy, taloned fingers sought out her throat, her breasts and her _stomach_.

Brand awoke with a start, gasping in a dark and silent room as every inch of her was overwhelmed with _wrongness_. She could not feel the darkspawn here, they could not possibly _be_ here, but _Maker_ something horrible was happening and, when she shifted to place her feet on the floor, she felt a strange release in her abdomen followed by a ghastly sensation made worse by its familiarity- blood trickling down her thighs.

Even though there was no pain, panic made it almost impossible to stand as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark yet failed her in this room she almost never used. As her mind fractured and her stomach heaved, all she could do was fling herself forward and hope she landed against a door.

With every step she could tell her baby, her son, her _Bryce_ was struggling within her. According to Fiona and Anatolia, he'd been a remarkably calm baby, and he wasn't active now just..._struggling_. She let out a sob of helplessness then cried into the dark for Varel, praying that he might be in the throne room.

After a few moments of frantic panting, Brand forced herself to take another series of shaking steps and, miracle of miracles, she soon found herself in the main hall and stumbling to the front dais, a trail of bloody footprints marking her progress as she collapsed between the two wooden chairs where she and Teagan, ostensibly, held court.

The hall was empty and Brand called out again, pressing her hands to her stomach as if she could hold the world together on her own. As if hands that did nothing but kill could sustain life _at all_.

She had no idea how much time passed, only that, despite a lack of _pain,_ the world was spinning, shrinking and closing in around her as her vision became black at the edges and narrowed down. Bryce flailed again and she moaned, a feral sound that raised the hairs on the back of her own neck as her forehead pressed to the floor, the wool carpet hot and itchy against her skin and a chasm of churning red rage opening up within her.

"VAREL!" She screamed this into the rug, but it was as clear as any call she'd ever made and it was the one that go through. Her anger had evaporated by the time he found her, but desperation poured out in the form of sweat that made it hard for Varel to hold her as he walk-dragged her to the infirmary, yelling for help as he went and for someone to find Anatolia, _for the love of the Maker_.

There was nobody else in the infirmary, the healers all joining Teagan's efforts against the flooding and even through her fog, Brand could tell Varel was on the verge of falling apart because he had no idea _what to do_.

"Help him," she licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry as her head fell back onto the pillow and her back arched in a spasm that registered only in muscle and not in nerves. Varel's eyes darkened with horror and she knew it was because there was another flush of fresh blood and it must be pooling on her skirt or the sheets at this point.

"Seneschal? What is happening here?" This would be Anatolia, Oriana's midwife and a lifelong resident of Highever. The older woman let loose a gasp that chilled Brand. "Oh, Andraste save us."

Varel helped Anatolia remove Brand's smock and undergarments until she was clad only in a blood soaked shift that slid up her hips when she was once again racked in numb shockwaves as Bryce protested _something_.

"He's going to die," her voice sounded weak, but her entire soul was in those words, a lifetime's worth of desperation. "Help him, help him, help him. _Don't let him die_."

Anatolia pressed her hands against Brand's stomach, assessing the way the muscles contracted, and then she slid her hand between the other woman's legs. Pulling quickly away, she shook her head. "She's not ready, but I don't think the baby is going to survive much longer."

Brand sat up in panic, her head spinning the room around and sparks blinding her so that Varel and Anatolia were all but obliterated in light, the fate of her child being discussed beyond her awareness.

"Anders didn't go," the words were forced from a vague memory of an observation she'd felt guilty making. "He wasn't with Teagan when he left."

She felt Varel's rough hand against her own as he asked for confirmation. None came; she'd collapsed again, her eyes fallen shut as the tilting room folded around her and she slid into unconsciousness.

When she could see again, there was pressure on her chest and warmth shooting through her. If she could lift her head, she'd have kissed Anders; instead she pulled at her gown, her skin feeling _alive_ beneath the fabric and crying out to be uncovered.

"Commander, you _have_ to hold still," Anders sounded funny, his words slurred. "The more you move, the harder it is on the baby."

"Anders, tell them to stop hurting him," she sounded like a child and her hands moved to cover her ears, only they didn't move at all. "I _command_ you to tell me what is happening."

Anders was as wet with sweat as she was, his face drawn with exhaustion _and how long has he been here?_ but he stopped to move one hand to her cheek, and she automatically pressed against his palm, eyes closing and tears spilling to mingle with their perspiration.

"The baby is dying. He's having trouble breathing. I can _feel_ it, but you're not ready to deliver," his voice was a low stream of _I'm_ _sorry's_. "Anatolia wants to cut him out alive, but that would most definitely kill you. I can put you both to sleep...he'll stop moving and...go peacefully. That means you might survive when she takes him..."

"_Anders_," she found her hands again and was able to grab the front of his robes. "Take him now, so he can live. I'll hold still, I promise."

"Brand, _no_. You can't ask me to do this," his hand slid up slightly and she felt his fingers curl into her hair, a subtle gesture that opened the world.

"I'm not asking," she pulled away from his touch and felt its absence immediately and _everywhere_. "If you want to save me, you have to save him, too."

Anatolia was growing impatient past Brand's feet.

"Mage, we don't have time for this."

And Anders collapsed against his Commander, Brand felt his weight and his anguish was momentarily hers, transferred through close contact as her breath caught in her throat.

"You're not doing it to me, you're doing it _for_ me," she whispered this and wanted him to hold her face again, but he stood instead and walked away.

"Cut him out," his voice was flat, all emotion gone as he disappeared into Fiona's office, emerging with a rack of glass vials filled with thick, sapphire liquid. Brand watched him approach, gratitude choking her. He took two potions off the rack and drank them with a momentary twisting of his lips when he laid his hands on her stomach, hesitating for a moment as he found the perfect position. "All right, Anatolia. I need one minute."

Anatolia was holding a scalpel, Brand hadn't even noticed that her shift had been pushed up to expose the underside of her stomach, and the older woman looked desperately annoyed at the mages' request for more time.

"Brand Cousland," Anders' voice was low. "You are going to have to let yourself _feel_, because this might be the last real thing you have to take with you."

_What did that _mean_?_ "It's Guerrin," she corrected him weakly. "And name him after my father...can you do that?"

"You _have_ to live, Brand," his minute was almost up. "The baby will probably die without you, and Teagan will come back to nothing at all. _Please_, help me and I'll save you both, I promise."

Brand laughed and her stomach buckled in response, "You didn't answer my question."

"Ser mage..." Anatolia moved towards Brand's stomach with the scalpel.

"Your father," Anders nodded towards the midwife, then turned his attention to Brand, who settled back and closed her eyes in resignation. "I will be happy to name your son. Your little _Rendon_."

_No_. Brand felt her entire body set aflame as everything slipped and pushed against the very _idea_. She opened her mouth to scream _Bryce_, but only agony poured out as everything she'd refused to feel without realizing it was there in full force, but especially the gash across her stomach as it pulled apart to allow her son a chance to live.

It didn't take long, the knife and the tear and the sickly moist noises as what had been hidden away all these months, signaling emotions, boredom and _yeah, I'm listening to you ramble on to no one in particular_ from within her, came out in silence until Anders held him and breathed him back to life, hands glowing blue light into her _son,_ who wailed his disapproval and kicked feebly at the air.

"He looks like a genlock," Brand whimpered this, and was surprised at how easy it was to _not_ think about the hole in her stomach, which Anatolia was pressing and then Anders was back to her, one hand uncorking lyrium potions and drinking them by the fistful. His lips were blue, and she could tell by the fade in his eyes that he was making himself sick.

But he persisted, Brand consumed by wave after wave of healing that helped ease the pain, but did nothing for the way the walls and ceiling retreated and, eventually, disappeared completely.

She awoke to Fiona yelling, the woman furious at everyone in the infirmary, but _especially _Anders for being so reckless with lyrium.

"You could have killed yourself, or lost control and _hurt_ her, or the baby."

"His name is Bryce," Anders choked this out from somewhere on Brand's left and she tried to turn to him, but could not move.

"Ser mage?" That voice belonged to Anatolia.

"_What_?" Fiona and Anders responded in unison, one at a snap, the other a murmur.

"The Commander is awake."

Fiona came into view, her black and white hair sticking up at all angles and her dark eyes bruised from lack of sleep. Brand opened her mouth to speak, her tongue felt almost the size of her head and her head swam with words that wouldn't find their way down. So, instead of speech, she let out a pathetic little mewl.

"How _eloquent_," Anders croaked it out, but the sarcasm did _nothing_ to mask the relief in his voice and Brand slid back under knowing he would probably never ignore her again.

The next time she roused, her body had regained its ability to move. Moving remained difficult, however. The incision on her abdomen was like anchored agony and not even she could push past _this_ pain. Anatolia was waiting on her, face drawn as if she'd been without sleep for three years straight.

Anatolia offered a wooden cup of water, which Brand took greedily, less for thirst and more to loosen her tongue.

"Can I?" The words were rough, as if talking was not something she did very often these days. Anatolia nodded and, within minutes, Brand was holding _him_ for the first time, a near weightless thing that bore no resemblance to a genlock, or any _other_ type of darkspawn.

"He looks like _me_," Brand brushed her finger along his stubborn chin and touched the tip of his nose. Even in miniature, it was too long and bore the tiniest bump.

"You should see his _fingers_," Anders watched from the bed next to hers, a previously silent and unacknowledged observer to mother and son. "They're already as long as yours, and I'm not talking in a proportional sense."

Brand was tempted to pull at his swaddling clothes and check this out for herself, but that would wake him from his sound slumber against her chest. Instead she took him in again, noticing this time his milk white skin and the way his faint brows and wispy strands of hair caught copper in the dim infirmary light.

"_Bryce_," she whispered this and cupped his cheek. Part of her wanted him to open his eyes, to stretch a little and settle more comfortably against her. She already _needed_ to hear his voice, to know his thoughts on things like his name, and picture books and silly faces. She wanted to see if he would have the same eyes as her and her mother, or if those would belong to Teagan. Would he like cats? Or enjoy thunderstorms at night? Or write with his namesake's erratic hand?

Who and how would he love, and what kind of man would he be?

Already she wanted him laid out in front of her _complete_ so she could study him these next twenty some years and appreciate him as only a mother could, to know _everything_ before the taint took her from him too soon.

But she'd have to do this the hard way: over hours, days, months and years. He slept, as he would for much of the next few months, and his identity slept with him. He _was_ just a baby, after all.

* * *

6.

A week later, the floods were still being dealt with by the Arl and his wife's men. It was Anders who walked Brand to her chamber the first night she was allowed to sleep in her own bed, his hand secure on the small of her back and Bryce tucked into the crook of his arm.

He placed the baby in his waiting bassinet, positioned next to Brand's side of the bed, and covered him carefully with a blanket knitted by Miss Woolsey, Brand's treasurer and the last person in the world she'd ever thought would knit.

But the blanket was just distracting her from Anders and their being alone.

They faced each other at the bassinet, and she had no idea where to start or how far to open her heart. _Thank you_ seemed so useless a phrase (that's what she muttered when he made her achy shoulder stop being achy, or when he listened. It really shouldn't work for something as momentous as saving her son's life, as well as her own), but nothing else came close to _conveying _without crossing the unspoken but definitely _there_ line between them.

"Thank you, Anders," she hoped that her eyes made up the rest, that he could see in them exactly what else she meant when she said this. Then she did something silly, because she was exhausted and giddy and very near winding her arms around his neck and breaking so many rules of conduct and wedding vows.

She kissed him on the cheek, hands behind her back, and body held a safe distance away. When her lips met his skin, she felt herself draw down to the center then expand like a sigh or a really excellent stretch. An attempt to not linger was made, but there was a place just a hair's breadth away that gave her his scent and his heat but was technically not _him_, so she paused for a moment before settling back on her heels.

His expression was one of quiet panic when she pulled away, each breath he drew was clear but shallow. His eyes said _everything_.

He left without another word, to protect them both, and Brand absently touched her mouth. There was no confusion, embarrassment or tears. He'd be back this time, and they would begin the long and careful dance as their worlds settled around her son in small but profound ways and they held parts of their true selves away from the other until those parts were almost gone completely.

In a few days, Teagan would return home and wrap his arms around her for the first time since the night she asked him to leave. Within the year, they'd mature into exactly what she feared from the beginning: partners...companions. She would respect him the way everyone did, and he would admire her the way he had before. Nothing more would spark from that.

Bryce would find Teagan's beard almost maddeningly fascinating.

That night, though, Bryce was asleep and she had work to do. Leaning back against the headboard, her stomach still stiff from the procedure, Brand closed her eyes and forced herself to forget what she had seen and felt not moments ago and on the night of Bryce's delivery. It was high emotions, and nothing more. It was gratitude, and nothing more. It was hormones and exhaustion and loneliness.

All that, and _nothing _more.


	25. Brazen

They arrived in Amaranthine less than twenty minutes after Brand and Anders, both bright-eyed for some reason, rejoined them in the carriage. Alistair knew he'd been to this city before, but that was on a boat and blacked out on a horse and...

"Wait, how did the two of you get me to Vigil's Keep without waking me up?" The mage was helping Fiona down from her seat in the rear and Brand was securing a pack to Bryce that would allow him to carry Pounce through the city.

"I think I'll let you handle this one, Anders," Brand tugged at the straps on Bryce's bag. Bryce seemed curious to hear Anders' response, his auburn brows inching up his forehead as he reclined his head back to better listen.

With Fiona safely on solid ground, Anders brushed off the front of his trousers and frowned thoughtfully.

"You know how sleepwalking works?"

Alistair narrowed his eyes, "Yes, I am familiar with _sleepwalking_."

Anders smiled brightly, shrugged, and then went back to pulling overnight packs from the cab. The carriage would be guarded outside the city, so they would only carry the things they needed for the evening.

"And...that's _it_? You put a sleepwalking spell on me?" Alistair looked to Brand, but she feigned innocence. "Is that even a _thing_, or were you _experimenting_ on me?"

"There is no such thing...Alistair," Fiona stood behind Bryce, her fingers absently raking through his hair. She offered her fellow mage a polite glare and then turned back. "What he probably used was a combination of a disorientation spell and a low-level sleep. So, experimentation but nothing dangerous."

"I save my big, scary magic experiments for Bryce," Anders winked at the boy, who smirked back proudly. "Before Feast Day, I think I was practicing something that would help me set a person's clothes on fire without actually harming them...was that it, Bryce?"

Bryce shook his head and skipped forward, one hand secure on Pounce and his other catching Anders', "No, you were making my hair grow fast. It was a trick on Brand."

"Of course, how could I have forgotten," he shot Brand a sheepish look. "He and I both find you fretting about the length of his hair to be terribly, and embarrassingly, amusing."

"Better that than setting his clothes on fire," Brand's demeanor was still decidedly euphoric as she led them away from the stables and towards the city gates.

The outskirts of Amaranthine bore scars from the darkspawn attack five years earlier, and smaller raids before that. Some of the small homes that had been destroyed were rebuilt and painted cheerful shades of blue and yellow and surrounded by dirt yards teeming with flowers and vegetable plants. It seemed a strange place to want to live, small pockets of normalcy against a devastated backdrop, but Alistair imagined there were worse places to make one's home.

The city itself was well-fortified, but Alistair was noticing how _dirty_ everything seemed. Brand and her crew were like shining beacons in a sea of filth. Part of it was the livestock that lumbered just outside the walls, but even inside there was a thin layer of ancient grit on everything.

"There's been a bit of a drought this season, so the dust is winning," Fiona caught up with him, her staff, a length of pale dragonbone carved to resemble a twisted branch, serving as a walking stick. Alistair imagined that she did this to appear slightly less suspicious. As an elf and a mage, she had two points against her.

Alistair had been trying to place her age since he saw her. Since she was a Grey Warden, she couldn't be any older than her late forties. Her appearance, though, pegged her as younger while the shadows in her eyes indicated older. He _did_ know that when she spoke, something inside him settled. _It must be an elder mage thing_, he decided. Wynne had the same effect on him. Whatever it was, he was no longer irritated with her for snapping at him yesterday morning. _Maker, had it only been a day? _She'd had a good point, after all. She'd been _right_.

"So, how disgusting were they?" The question was _not_ what he had been expecting from her.

"Pardon?"

Fiona tilted the tip of her staff towards the trio ahead of them, Brand and Anders walking shoulder to shoulder, Bryce a few steps in front.

"I should have asked you to ride with me, after lunch. When I saw the looks he was giving her...I just hoped they spared you anything uncomfortable," Fiona seemed caught somewhere between happiness and frustration when she spoke of them. "I'll let you have the back tomorrow. I just needed some time to think."

She looked ahead to where Brand and Anders were waiting for them, heads close as they discussed something that involved a lot of smiling. They at least had the decency to put a few inches of distance between themselves when Alistair and Fiona caught up.

Brand's face settled into something serious as she eyed Alistair with a mixture of nervousness and regret.

"I need to see Constable Aidan, to ask questions about Eamon and decide what to...do," she realized too late that Bryce was standing right _there_, his head bowed over Pounce.

"Is _Eamon_ here?" He lit up, and Alistair felt his stomach tighten. He'd not really pieced things together over the past few days. It had never occurred to him that Brand's son was Eamon's nephew, Connor's cousin...and Cailan's cousin, as well. How surreal it was to think about, the ties shared between the Guerrins and his own family. And now there was only Connor, a prisoner of his own magical abilities, and _Bryce_ who, despite his knowing gaze, seemed incredibly far removed from the Guerrins that Alistair had known.

"No, Eamon's not here, Bryce. We'll talk about this later, ok?" The boy looked vaguely bothered by the brush off, but he returned to the mage's cat without another word.

"Alistair, I was wondering if you'd like to...come with me. To see the constable," her eyes met his to finish the sentence. _To see Eamon's body, to say good-bye_. "Anders and Fiona will take Bryce to the inn and secure our rooms. I'll go alone, of course, if you don't want..."

"No, I _should _go," he turned his attention to his feet. Both the mages were staring at him, one with sympathy, the other with an utterly unreadable expression. He wondered if either one of them knew who he really was, what Eamon had meant to him.

_Not much if you'd run away without even saying good-bye._

"Stay with Anders and Fiona, Bryce," Brand planted a kiss on the top of his head and forced cheer. "Anders, keep him away from the f-r-o-g p-o-n-d-s. And Fiona, keep Anders away from the f-r-o-g p-o-n-d-s."

"That only happened once," he looked to Alistair as if the other man cared. "Oghren dared me. And I was drunk."

"You were also naked," Fiona started to laugh. "Didn't you spend most of that day naked?"

"And in an indescribable amount of _trouble_," Brand's lips curved in amusement. Then, unthinkingly, "At least he never ran through the Denerim market in nothing but a helmet."

She didn't name names, but Alistair's face grew so incredibly _hot_ that she might as well have danced around him, pointing and singing about the night they'd found themselves in a seemingly deserted city and how a playfully escalating game of _dare_ had ended with them unshod and chasing each other in the moonlight, tearing past booths that would be teeming with people within a few hours, the whole of it _theirs_ for the time-being.

Actually, the game had ended with her pressed between him and a wall behind the Chantry, her helmet off so she could bury her face in his shoulder to better muffle cries of pleasure, and his own pushed up just enough to allow for _kissing_, looking like a madman a consideration secondary to his _need_ for her.

"I'm sorry," Brand's cheeks were flooded with color. Alistair gathered himself, his gaze moving to Anders, who observed with interest.

"Don't be sorry, it was a _fun_ night," Alistair let his voice caress everything it could and smirked when the mage's mouth twitched with barely concealed resentment.

"We should all get moving, the rain won't hold out much longer..." Fiona had gone pale and she tugged at Anders, who pulled at Bryce. "I'll keep your boys safe...and _clothed_, Commander."

For a few minutes, Alistair watched Brand watching her mages and her son head down a wide staircase that led to what looked like an open marketplace, bustling despite the heavy clouds overhead.

"They don't exactly blend in, an elf mage, a man mage and child carrying a cat," Alistair took a step towards Brand. "Are you sure they'll be all right?"

The woman nodded without looking back, then pointed to the battlements that ran along the inner side of the city walls. Alistair could barely make out a shadowy figure positioned to watch over the market, but he guessed it was Nathaniel. Brand confirmed this.

"Sigrun is stationed ahead of the Market, to follow their progress once Nate cannot," she spun back on her heel and began walking in the opposite direction. "This is just to prevent a sneak attack mind you, Anders and Fiona are more than capable of handling the situation on their own. The biggest concern is getting a shield on Bryce."

Alistair recalled the field Anders had placed on Brand the evening before, an impenetrable wall of magicked air. He'd seen them before, but never one so incredibly _solid_. Bryce would be well protected.

The route to the guard's quarters was circuitous and Alistair realized with a jolt that they were very near the open market, but the opposite side of where they'd started.

"It's to avoid notice, the shopkeeps know me too well," Brand pulled a key from her pack and let herself into a door that led to an enclosed stone staircase. Alistair could see light trickling in from somewhere far overhead and lit torches burned at regular intervals along the walls. Still, it was uncomfortably close here and more than a little creepy. Brand appeared immune, gathering her skirts and stepping lightly up the damp steps. She set a slightly slower pace than he'd expected and he noticed her favoring her left leg. Without thinking, he held his hand up in case she tripped or stumbled.

Less than an hour earlier, he'd have wanted to knock her over himself.

He tried not to think too much about how unstable he was feeling and soon they were letting themselves into a long, stone-lined room. High, barred windows allowed weak sunlight to pour in and the room was set up for the recreation of the guards and not anything else.

And there _were_ guards, about ten of them, who all looked at the pair with surprise before settling on Brand and realizing that the woman in the pretty green dress was the Warden-Commander and,

"Apologies, my lady, I almost didn't recognize you," the guard smiled a mostly toothless grin and offered a hand that was taken with great hesitance.

"Yes, I was hoping to speak with the Constable, is he about?"

They were immediately ushered into an office at the back of the quarters. A blond man in elaborate chainmail sat behind a desk covered in correspondences and, from the shadows around his eyes, he'd not seen his bed for at least two days. Still, he seemed genuinely glad to see Brand and even allowed himself a curious glance at her companion.

"Commander Cousland, I am glad to see you," he stood immediately and summoned her to follow him to yet another chamber, this one empty except for a lone table upon which rested a featureless lump covered by a thick, burlap blanket. Brand and Alistair balked in unison at this, both of them well-aware that it was Arl Eamon under there, his body lifeless.

"Constable, you could have warned us..." Brand's hand went to her mouth and Alistair could not tell if her eyes were watering from the smell or if she was crying.

"I am most sorry, Commander. However, things have been abnormally chaotic over these past few days. Between the Arl and his men, the bodies we discovered in the cove and now... I won't worry you with _those_ details."

"Will it make you feel better if I solved a couple of those murders myself?" Brand had regained control of her faculties and was moving further into the room. Alistair remained by the door.

The constable's eyes went light with _please_ and Brand squared her shoulders.

"They were assassins hired to kill a man arriving on a boat from Antiva. The man was a Warden and I felt it in our best interest to protect him. Unfortunately, the assassins attacked us and were...defeated," she tilted her chin up slightly. "I take full responsibility, Constable."

The man nodded wearily and sighed with something close to relief.

"That explains the discrepancies between those murders, uh, _deaths_ and..._this_," he jerked his thumb towards the body on the table. "The men by the docks were clean kills. I'm sorry to say that whoever went after the Arl was more like a butcher. That room...I can say that it was worse than when the city walls were smeared with darkspawn entrails. Despite the mess, however, there was no sign of exit. If it weren't for the fact that everyone there was hacked to pieces, I'd almost say it was one of the Arl's own men who did it."

"And this was at Marigold's?" Brand had her back to Eamon's body, her posture thoughtful.

"Yes, Commander. These were left behind," he reached into a small basket in the corner of the room and presented Brand with three polished stones, one black, one pale blue, and the third reddish. "They were placed quite deliberately on the body or we probably would've missed them entirely."

Brand took the stones, brows drawn in consideration.

"Alistair, can you explain these?" Her eyes were dark, her voice deadly serious. His heart had leapt when he saw the rocks, but now it was clamoring against his chest and his borrowed clothes seemed suddenly too tight and the frigid room sweltering.

_How did she know?_

"They can mean a lot of things," Alistair kept his voice level. "The guild, or order, or _individual_, assigns a different meaning to each color of stone and you hope that the only person who knows what your stones mean is the person you're leaving them for."

"So, it's a cipher?" Brand shook them in her hand; they clattered noisily in this somber, silent room.

"Exactly. They're used extensively in Antiva, less so in other countries," Alistair hated the way Brand was looking at him now, like he might be the enemy. "And it's not, it's not _just_ assassins. Or criminals. Hired blades and inside men use them to send messages to their contacts in the law."

"Try not sound _too_ guilty," Brand pocketed the stones and returned to Aidan. "Did any of your men seem interested in the scene? Or was there anything missing?"

The constable had watched the exchange between Alistair and Brand with immense concern and his face scrunched in confusion when Brand wheeled upon him.

"Uh, no. Nothing strange at all about the murder, except for the fact that it happened in the first place. There's been another like it, a collection of smugglers this time. They've been holed up just south of the city. Between you and me, I've been counting on, er, _someone else_ to take care of them, but this doesn't seem like his work. Unfortunately, their den was cleaned out. Only bodies, and no one to care about them."

She nodded and pushed back a few strands of hair that had fallen across her forehead, her expression gone grim.

"What do you think we should do with him, Alistair?"

And it was time to deal with Eamon. Alistair closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the man as he looked when Alistair was young. Kind blue eyes, auburn hair, gentle smile. He'd never gotten _angry_ at Alistair, nor had he been particularly proud or pleased or..._anything_. It was just a man and the _bastard_ he fed, clothed and occasionally took out and about with him. There had been days when he thought that he deserved more, but those were long gone. Now he realized how good he'd had it. In a life full of disappointments, being cared for but not loved by a man who had no reason to do either was quite low on the list.

"Has Connor been told?"

Brand's eyes darted guiltily, "I couldn't bring myself to share this in a letter. So...no. I was thinking we might go to the Tower after we see Fergus. I haven't mentioned it to our fellow travelers, for obvious reasons. I was also considering lying. He took Teagan's death so hard, I'd hate for him to have any idea how similarly pointless and cruel his father's was."

Alistair stared at the floor in front of him, splintering wooden slats that fit uncomfortably alongside one another. The toe of his boot scraped along a crevice and he remembered a day when he was fifteen or sixteen, and the initiates gathered in a tight circle talking about storms and high seas and now _pretty_ _Prince_ _Cailan_ would be king.

That's how he'd learned of his father's death, eavesdropping on classmates. It had struck him then as not being a terrible way to go, getting lost at sea. Drowning wasn't fun, he'd heard, but it was better than starving to death, or having a long illness, or dying ignobly in an inn waiting for your runaway ward to show his face, hoping perhaps that you recognized the man he'd become.

Alistair realized, with a start, that Eamon might not have.

Brand was watching him, concern turning the corners of her mouth down and he almost, almost, _almost_ went to her because sometimes she recognized him and sometimes he thought if he could..._touch_ her without guilt, or fear, or anger then he could reconnect with someone he wanted to be, or just always be whoever she saw when she looked at him like...this. Like they'd parted as friends, he off on a voyage around Thedas and she into the wonderful world of marriage, motherhood and mages.

"If nobody besides us knows how he really died...maybe we can say he went down at sea," Alistair's lips felt numb and this was all starting skew a bit _unreal_.

Aidan grimaced.

"Unfortunately, that's not the case. The clerk at Marigold's saw the body and a few of my men know as well. I wouldn't be surprised if word of his murder has spread to Denerim."

"_Dammit_," Brand drummed her fingers against her stomach. "Should we have a service?"

They _should_, Eamon deserved one, but if he was as bad off as the constable had indicated...

"Have his body blessed, cremate it and store the ashes. We'll...I'll...one of us will return for them after Connor has been informed," Alistair almost didn't recognize the authority in his voice, and was further surprised to see Brand's lips quirk in gratitude for making a choice that terrified her.

They excused themselves from the guard's quarters, with Aidan promising to hold the ashes and to keep his arlessa informed of any additional murders or odd happenings that might occur.

The trip down the stairs was hurried, both of them clearly needing to get far, far away from the dead body, but Alistair wanted to talk and this place seemed private, so he grabbed her elbow.

"What did Eamon think about you marrying Teagan?"

Brand didn't pull away, which seemed odd.

"You mean what did he think about his brother marrying the woman who sacrificed his wife and inadvertently exiled his ward, allowing the man who killed his nephew and poisoned _him_ to walk free in the process?"

_That_ was more effective. Alistair dropped her arm but she continued to stare at him, eyes glittering in torchlight.

"He was never anything less than kind to me, never anything less than grateful," it sounded like it hurt her throat to say this. "Even after Teagan died and he had no _real_ reason to be polite, he invited Bryce and me to stay with him, if I ever wanted to leave the Wardens. I couldn't even ask for forgiveness, because he never blamed me. I still don't know if he was a saint, or the world's greatest manipulator."

She continued down the stairs, faster now, and Alistair felt his heart knotting inside his chest as he thought of Brand begging his forgiveness after allowing Isolde to die to save her son. He'd assumed that Brand could pull another miracle and manage to save _everyone_. When she didn't, he'd _yelled_ at her, falling apart over what _Eamon_ might say. Eamon and Connor, as it turned out, were just grateful that _anything _had been salvaged from the wreckage of poisonings and demon possession. If it weren't for his _mouth_, Brand might not bear that remorse. And if he hadn't left, she'd not be concerned about _that_, either.

Of course, there was _Loghain_, but he decided to just keep his mouth shut. One allusion a day was more than enough for him.

* * *

Pauvel was a good shopkeep, his nervous hands kept out of view because nervous hands on nervous shopkeeps made nervous customers, and nervous customers did not turn over copper or silver. They just shuffled to the next stall in search of someone less _nervous_.

The next stall was _Fimora_ and he did not like her at all. He hated to see her take his coppers and silvers, so he hid his hands except to fold and refold the lengths of cloth on display.

But that was nervous, too, so he'd stop and endure the slight creases and uneven margins around the bolts on the table.

This evening looked like rain, and that made him...well, not happy. He'd not done much business that day, and he'd hoped to stay open later than normal, catch those he might normally miss. The rain would spot his silks, though, and ruin the delicate scarves that netted him the most coin.

There was one scarf in particular that, if he could sell it now, he'd be able to go in for the night. It was a gift from strange men, for being _watchful_. However Pauvel had no use for it, he hadn't a wife or daughters who might wear such an accessory. His sons were grown, married and back in Rivain with their families.

So he watched the dwindling crowds for any man or couple who looked as if they might have the purse to afford such a finely crafted item, ocean blue, leaf green and soft to the touch. Unfortunately, the men and women in Amaranthine today were rough sorts, itinerant sailors and the slatterns they attracted. They saved _their_ coppers for cheap ale and cheap beds.

He'd almost resigned himself to a lost day when he saw the tall man with the long hair and earring. He _looked_ one step away from cheap ale and cheap beds, but he kept respectable company and had surprisingly expensive tastes.

Pauvel knew him as a mage, and kept himself aware as he summoned him to his stall with a practiced wave. The man seemed hesitant at first, but his elven assistant urged him forward, her hand firm on the shoulder of the human child that traveled between them.

The child looked nothing like either of his adults, and held a pack against his stomach, out of which a small orange head appeared, keeping track of the activity around him. Pauvel noted this, in the hopes that he might get more rewards for being _watchful_.

"Are you married, my friend?" Pauvel leaned against the table, his weight keeping his hands still.

"Why, are you interested?" The mage hooked one long finger into a necklace that was three strands of green stone twisted together. It was a woman's necklace, Pauvel noted with joy.

"I have something that would make your wife very happy, it could get you out of much trouble," Pauvel tried to not look at the elven woman, but failed. She was obviously much older than the man, but Pauvel knew how some humans could be with their elves.

"I don't have a wife," he'd discovered the scarf, and pulled at it appreciatively. "But I do know someone who might like _this_."

It was too easy. The mage smiled crookedly, as if imagining his beloved's reaction to the gift, his free hand reaching for his coin purse.

"How much do you want for it?"

Pauvel balked. This really _was_ too easy, it seemed almost a trick, a trap. Maybe the same men who'd asked him to watch? But the mage had gold and was willing, so Pauvel held up two fingers.

The mage threw down three sovereigns and indicated the torn canvas awning overhead. Pauvel took the coins greedily, his hands no longer nervous or shaking. The elf eyed the mage with suspicion as he folded the scarf into his pack and moved to walk away.

"Did someone get a raise in his allowance for good behavior?"

The child hung back, his interest caught by a cat shaped amulet hanging in Pauvel's stall. He poked at the feline, pointing and whispering excitedly, "Look, Ser Pounce-a-lot! It's you!"

"More like a raise for _bad_ behavior..."

"Anders!"

The cry came as a shock, the cat suddenly clawing to get out of the child's arms and the boy completely unprepared for _that_, his green eyes huge with panic as the animal leapt away from him with a hiss.

The mage was at the boy's side, assessing small scratches at the base of his throat that disappeared with a subtle touch and tiny flare of blue light. His attention, then, was trained in the direction of the _cat_.

Pauvel realized, fear clutching his stomach and urging him to pack his wares as fast as his nervous hands would allow, that the mage had his staff drawn and so did the elf. The other people in the street fled away, skirts gathered and eyes narrowed at the couple and the boy between them who just did not _belong_.

"Did you _steal_ that child?" Pauvel could not believe that he was accusing mages of anything, he should be _fleeing_ before they set the entire city on fire.

_Fire. Or worse._

Lightning erupted from the male mage's hands as he shot a bolt through the air towards the battlements. Until it landed, the space appeared empty. The white light revealed a flailing man with a bow, probably trained on the mages or the child. The cat was also up there, running along the railing towards the opposite end of the market; the female mage taking off in that direction, the man catching the child in his arms, doing something that made them both _glow_ before following his partner at a low run.

Pauvel stared after in horror, no longer concerned about anything but his life and the three sovereigns earned for _watching_.

And not even _he_ noticed the arrow buried in his chest until the mage with the blue lit hands had disappeared from earshot, his sovereigns hitting the ground seconds ahead of the dead shopkeep.

* * *

Things were falling apart again.

Brand stepped out of the guard's tower to a clutch of citizens gathered at the top of the staircase that led to the markets. Women clung to men, men looked angry, and she heard murmurs of _magic_ and _a stolen child_ and _poor, poor shaky Pauvel_.

Alistair must have heard, too, and caught her waist. Her eyes detected a shadow to their right that moved too quickly when they began to push through the crowd.

"Please tell me you're armed," the crush of people around them forced him against her back, so he spoke directly into her neck, his voice low in her ear. Even with her nerves steeling themselves for battle, tiny reverberations of _him_ played along her spine and she'd _also_ thought of their long-ago tryst against a wall, the feelings of _tension_ and _hurry_ strikingly similar to this situation.

"Here," she crouched for a second and came back up with the enchanted daggers she'd had during their first scuffle, handing them off without a second look before her hands disappeared within her cloak in search of the golden daggers given to her by the Messenger.

A sharp whistle sounded overhead, and Brand craned her neck to see Sigrun bouncing on the battlement, indicating an alleyway that intersected one of the supply tunnels within the walls. Brand dove sideways through the crowd, her blades hidden to avoid escalating the panic of the civilians around them.

Within moments, they were stumbling into the clear, now free to move but obvious targets for anyone who had the mind to attack.

A sharp _twang_ from behind and a _whizz_ past Brand's ear indicated that there were _definitely _those who had the mind.

She ducked, running towards the alleyway, hoping that the shadows there didn't hold more assassins as another arrow hit the ground just in front of her and then she heard Alistair cry out. Without thinking, she reached behind and grabbed his arm to pull him along with her.

Only steps away from their goal, a small figure flew out of a darkened doorway on Brand's left, and came at her with daggers flashing silver in the gathering gloom.

Brand was slow to react, her own weapons sheathed and her focus on Alistair, who'd staggered worryingly when she let go of him. The attacker's blade found her upper arm, biting easily through the cloak and the sleeve of her dress just as she found her awkward grip on the Crow's daggers and slashed out in retaliation, her arm surprisingly ok with everything.

Even wounded and frantic, Brand had done this enough times that her aim was perfect and her strike hard enough to knock the assassin off balance. With a quick uppercut that caught its target's jaw and sliced effortlessly through, the attacker was dispatched in a most grisly manner and Brand was able to return to Alistair, who'd found a wall to support as he stared in bemused shock at the twin arrows sticking out of his shin.

"Anders is going to be so pissed that you ruined his pants," she had no idea what she was saying, but Alistair laughed wildly and allowed her to tuck her shoulder into his armpit so they could limp into the alley where Sigrun stood waiting.

There was _still_ something wrong, though, Sigrun less relieved than scared as she raised a finger to point behind them. Brand didn't even look, she just ducked beneath Alistair's arm and positioned herself at his back, barely fast enough to intercept the arrow that probably would have pierced _his_ heart, but merely lodged itself a few inches above her own.

* * *

Anders had never been a very good at sitting quietly, his mind too jangly with thoughts about everything from how he looked, to how the air around him _smelled_, to who might be watching him and _why_.

Now that he'd gotten into the habit of truly _caring_ about other people, especially other people who had a terrible tendency to wander into _death_, sitting quietly was just not possible.

"Where _is_ she?"

And it was only the hundredth time he'd asked, each iteration finding his voice a little more desperate, his mind seeking beyond the walls of Nathaniel's sister's home for any inkling of _her_ out there and wounded.

Because she _would_ be wounded.

Bryce was in a back room with Fiona and Will, Nate's nephew. Besides his initial surprise that Pounce had _hurt_ him to escape, he was viewing this whole thing as a grand adventure. Everyone in the house had heard the refrain of, "and Anders made lightning and we ran!" about ten times.

As for Pounce, he was waiting patiently by the door, his eyes trained on his mage.

"You probably think you deserve a treat, don't you?" Anders stopped twitching long enough to rummage through his pack, his hand brushing against the scarf. He drew it out, and allowed it to distract him, enjoying the way it felt against the skin on the back of his hand, imagining how it would look near her eyes, or around her shoulders, or entwined about her wrists, or draped over her bared breasts...

He really _did_ have a thousand ways he wanted to be with her, but he'd get _none_ of them if she was...

His heart stopped and he put the scarf away.

"Where _is_ she?"

Closing his eyes he threw his senses out as far as he could. He'd realized a few years ago that the more he healed someone the easier it became to pick up on them, even if they weren't wounded. By Fiona's estimation, Brand was probably held together entirely by Anders' magic (even joking once that if he were to ever die, she'd just _collapse_, useless forevermore). But Brand was also able to bury her pain, and it blocked him _completely_ when she did.

_Nothing_ was coming back, which set him off again. This time, he couldn't wait. Grabbing his staff and tugging open the door he was immediately hit by _it_, a wave of agony and he could see Nathaniel and Sigrun moving towards them, Alistair hanging onto the dwarf and Brand...

"Maker, _no_. Fiona!" He tore out of the house so quickly he stumbled for a few steps, catching himself before careening towards his fellow Grey Wardens and his

"Oh, _Brand_. Maker, what _happened_?"

She could not answer from her place in Nathaniel's arms, her head hanging back, her eyes opened but distant, her breath coming in short gasps. Her body looked broken, but Anders could sense only pain coming from her chest and the arrow that protruded so very, very close to her heart.

He followed Nathaniel back into the house, where Fiona was waiting to grab Alistair, her eyes widening when she saw his leg. Anders forced himself to focus on Brand's injury and not his own rising dread, which would only make him hesitate when he couldn't afford to hesitate.

It didn't _seem_ life-threatening, but she'd lost so much blood _and she's lost _too_ much these past few days_ and he needed to pay attention to what her body was telling him, and not how his heart was acting incredibly _stupid_. He bit his cheek and zeroed in on the _arrow_ as Nathaniel and Sigrun sat Brand on a nearby bench, supporting her upright.

"Nate, can you clip the shaft?"

Nathaniel had already brought forth a set of cutters and they went through the arrow as cleanly as could be hoped for. There was a small jolt however, and Brand cried out, an unexpected and uncharacteristic yelp of pain that dug into Anders. He wanted to do something _now_, but the arrow needed to come out first. As Nate braced his commander so Sigrun could yank the projectile, Anders, kneeling and holding towels in both hands, positioned himself to catch her, his fingers already tingling in anticipation of saving her.

_Again._

Once Sigrun had done her part, it was up to him. He pressed his hands on either end of the injury and pulled her down towards him, holding her steady against his chest as he envisioned his magic tunneling into her, repairing her as it entered and met somewhere deep within her breast.

Nate and Sigrun had moved on to Alistair, who was being similarly fret over by Fiona, even though he seemed almost fine, considering. Anders tore his concentration away from Brand long enough to peer at the other man, whose eyes were unapologetically on _her_.

And Anders was not surprised when Sigrun explained that Brand had taken the arrow for Alistair. That's just what she _did_.

It was going to have to _stop_ if she wanted to last much longer.

The pain was lessening, he could feel it dissipating beneath his palms as she relaxed forward against him, her head tucked beneath his chin.

"They attacked us right in the open. _Brazen_, Nan would say. Just brazen as could be," her voice was disconcertingly weak, so he offered a rejuvenation spell and she was so close that it spilled back into him.

"When this is over, we are _retiring_," he spoke lowly but not quietly. "We'll move to Highever, to be close to your brother and he can run off the templars when they start looking at me funny. Bryce can be around other children on a regular basis, and _you_ won't almost die every other day."

"But whatever shall we do with ourselves?" he could feel her smiling against his chest.

"Well, we'll make love at _least_ three times a day, _that's _a given. But we'll also sing songs, teach and train Bryce, learn to cook _real_ food, and to clean up after ourselves. And we'll take picnics on the shore, and in the forest, and be disgustingly normal, and happy and," she was looking at him now, _everyone_ was looking at him now, as he laid out these intimate and ridiculous _desires_ that he'd kept buried for years. His face grew warm, and he stopped talking. Her mouth pressed against his neck, a notice of appreciation and _gratitude_, before she tried to change the subject to something less likely to embarrass him.

"Your pants are ruined," her head tilted towards Alistair, who'd turned away and was staring at Fiona's head as she wrapped his injured leg. Then Brand looked back at Anders, blinking in delirious confusion, "Oh, and so's your _shirt_."

He realized then that her arm was bleeding, and he'd been so focused on the arrow wound and _her_ that he hadn't even _noticed_. "Why can't I feel this?"

She shook her head, brow furrowing, "I can't either, and I'm _trying_."

Leaning away so he could examine her more closely, she lost her balance and landed on the floor, slipping between his hands and making no move to sit back up.

"Fiona, something's...not right," he shifted forward, his hand running along her arm in search of a hint of the injury and it wasn't until he tugged the blood-soaked fabric away from her skin that he saw it, a deep gash already blackened, clotting and surrounded by a spidery network of darkening veins.

His heart stopped for what seemed like the millionth time that evening and Fiona gasped beside him.

"She's been poisoned," Fiona gingerly pressed at a spot just above the cut and drew her hand back. "Her skin is like ice, it's _numbing_ her."

Anders looked immediately to Alistair, who was watching the mages with obvious dread.

"Have you seen this before?" Anders was amazed his voice could sound so calm when everything inside of him felt displaced and the room was curling at the edges of his vision.

Alistair nodded, his fingers digging into his pant legs, his knuckles going white with the effort.

"Did the person _survive_?" This time there was a definite undercurrent of naked _fear_.

"No...not _any_ of them." He at least had the decency to look as if he might cry when he broke this news.

Fiona went in search of her medical supplies, while Anders just sagged over Brand's motionless body.

_Body...__like she's already dead._

"What are you doing?" He didn't even bother to hide his anguish, or move from where he lingered protectively.

The other mage pulled out a case filled with vials and smirked at Anders, which seemed _odd_, to say the least.

"Giving us both permission to act like fools," she selected four vials and handed two to him. "I'm going to scrape out the wound, and clean it. You're going to heal like you haven't healed in four years, to stop the spread, and I'll provide back-up whenever you need a break. _This_ could take all night."

Anders stared at the elven woman for several seconds. _What had gotten into her?_ Normally _he'd _be suggesting this crazy plan and _she'd_ talk him down with a list of reasons why it was stupid, dangerous and a waste of time, energy, and resources. And _stupid_.

"But...you don't think it's _stupid_? Alistair said..."

Fiona pushed him away, her dark eyes gleaming with purpose as she cut Brand's dress from her arm and settled down to scrape.

"I don't give a _damn_ what Alistair said," something in her expression undermined that sentiment. "I honestly doubt that any of the men _he_ saw poisoned had two Grey Warden healers who would do anything in their power, up to and including death, to save them. Or am I overestimating your devotion to the woman you love?"

That challenge, that _acknowledgement_, flared beneath his skin and was manifested in the pulse of magic that spilled from his fingertips into Brand's still and cooling arm even before he was able to position himself for optimal effect.

The two mages settled in to save their Commander, a silence stretching between them that remained unbroken for hours. Anders was so wholly focused on his _Brand_, that he never stopped to wonder why Fiona had suddenly come to agree that she was worth dying for.

The answer to a question never asked was watching from the corner, his face drawn in concern that he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve to feel.


	26. Trapped

**A Note From SF:** This chapter is entirely inappropriate, unacceptable and utterly, utterly NSFW.

I apologize in advance.

* * *

Everything was unnaturally bright here. And _hot_.

Brand fanned herself, cursing the dress that clung heavily to her skin. What seemed appropriate wear for Ferelden was hopelessly gauche in this well-appointed apartment in…

_Where am I?_

She took in the room around her, feet rooted together. Everything here was light and _cool_ except the air itself, which was impossibly thick and there were clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor and the furniture. Brand couldn't blame _anyone_ for going naked here.

The longer she stood, the more she could sense. This place smelled of fresh flowers and, sure enough, there was a clay vase on a table that was full of them, huge and colorful. Flowers in Ferelden were lovely, but never so _brilliant_.

There were also sounds coming from the next room but still distant, as if the next room was on the other side of a chasm. It wasn't, though, it was just _next_, and Brand felt herself drifting in and immediately wishing she hadn't. _Maybe._

Alistair was there, naked and above a woman who was urging him on with a steady stream of…Brand closed her eyes and thought of Zevran.

_This…this is _Antiva.

But the woman below Alistair, with her head thrown back so he could bury his face against her throat, was not Antivan at all. It was _her_.

_Maker, is that what I _look_ like when I'm…?_

Antivan Brand opened her eyes and they were _wrong_, blue and not green, the face around them settling into a beautiful version of Brand with darker skin and less awkward limbs. _And no _scars_ to speak of._

Alistair should see this, too, that the woman he thrust against as if thrusting was his _duty_ was not her and she felt indignation rising, and just a little bit of jealousy…but he slowed as if sensing that he'd somehow ended up inside the wrong woman, taking a hard look at her before continuing on his merry way. Brand wanted to smack him or something and _tell_ him: "She's wrong. _Beautiful_, but _wrong_."

She almost did it, too, which would have been _beyond_ embarrassing, but suddenly she was standing in the yard of the Vigil, Anders beside her looking distinctly amused.

"I had no idea you liked to watch," his eyebrow lowered suggestively. "I bet _we_ could put on a much more _entertaining_ show."

Brand looked down at her bloodstained dress and back to him, "Not wearing _these_ clothes we couldn't."

"That's why we wouldn't be _wearing_ these clothes. Or _any_ clothes," he glanced around the empty yard. "Would you think me depraved, my lady, if I told you I have the sudden urge to bend you over the well?"

"Bend me over the _well_?" Brand could tell by the curve of his lips and the spark in his eyes that he was _mostly_ joking. "I'd just think you were trying to throw me in and doing a really terrible job of it."

"Oh, there'd be nothing terrible about it," his hand found hers. "But, even _here_, Garavel's probably lurking around the corner, all scowls and ready disdain. He might push us _both_ in."

He tugged at her and she allowed herself to be led.

"Do you know why you're in the Fade? Do you know about the poison?"

Brand nodded; she'd heard him and Fiona speaking above her body, their voices coming to her as if she were underwater.

"I'm either dead or in some sort of unnatural state of sleep," she bit her lip. "I guess I'm hoping for the latter?"

This made him laugh, and he stopped to wrap his arms around her. "You were sedated so you wouldn't knock about as much. But I think you'll be mostly all right."

"'_Mostly_ all right?' I can't say that I care for the sound of that…" Brand touched her arm where the dagger had bit her, but she was now wearing a wine-colored silk gown, her court uniform, and her arm was unmarred. Being a full-time Arlessa usually meant that she wasn't being stabbed on a regular basis. Well, it _used_ to.

"Fiona thinks you might have lasting damage, from what could spread before we caught it. It _should_ be fairly localized," his finger traced the spot she'd just acknowledged and the wound appeared as it must be _now_, clotted black with blood and surrounded by faint veins. He moved his hand over again and it vanished even as his face grew serious. "The biggest concern is permanent weakness, in your arm and possibly _other_ places. Like_..._everywhere."

"Will you still love me if I'm feeble?" Despite the light-hearted joke, this news hurt her more than she let on. She'd been defined by _strength_ for so long, it would be incredibly difficult to lose that. And _dangerous_. "Now is probably not the _best_ time for me to become a mere mortal."

"Fortunately for us, Brand Cousland as mere mortal is still probably ten times as badass as the next ranking badass," he caught her chin and tilted her head back. "And as long as you keep your tongue and your smile, it would take a minor miracle, or a gaggle of _exceptionally_ attractive damsels, to tear me away."

She couldn't help but grin at _that_, and he responded with a kiss, hand sliding along her jaw into her hair and his mouth pressing against hers with a command of desire that took her breath away. She pushed forward the tiniest bit so that their tongues could draw at one another's lips before meeting. His palm slid from her neck down her back to pull their hips tantalizingly _close _and if she concentrated hard enough, she could feel...

Brand's eyes opened suddenly. She was alone in a bed in an unfamiliar room and the warmth of Anders' dream lips remained. Odd how even her _mind_ wouldn't let her seal the deal with him.

_What if this is just a sign that you aren't meant to be?_

Sadness ached her throat as she remembered the words he'd spoken to her before she collapsed. There was so much _promise_ there, but also so much concern implied by certain words, like _templars_ and _normal_.

They _weren't_ normal. He was a mage, and she was the mother of the heir to the arling of Redcliffe. She'd tried to avoid that truth, that Bryce had any responsibility to the Guerrin name, but after spending a few minutes with Eamon's body, _truth_ had began to gnaw at her.

It was one thing for a Grey Warden to fall in love with another Grey Warden, titles and magic were secondary to them being _Wardens_. But for an _arlessa_, even one just holding the title until her son came of age, to be with an _apostate_...that would be entirely unacceptable. Yet that's exactly what she and Anders would be. An arlessa and her apostate.

_Unacceptable_. _Just like we would have been at any point since we met._

Fiona had only spoken of the father of _her _child on one occasion, the impossible weight of an impossible decision bowing her shoulders even twenty-five years later. He was a respectable man, she said, a man who couldn't afford to have an elven mistress, much less one that was a _mage_. He'd wanted her to remain close, he'd wanted their child in his life, but she had no place outside of the Wardens, where she'd be labeled an apostate and reduced to hiding her magic beneath menial labor or subsisting on money he sent her, and always, always, _always_ fearful that the templars would find her, to take her away without warning.

Brand had thought about that man quite a bit, wondering why he would allow himself to get involved with Fiona, much less _impregnate_ her, knowing what she was and that they couldn't be together, even _privately_.

Now, as she laid there half delirious from magicked sleep, she knew exactly why he'd done it. She even understood what must have been his sad and desperate hope for impossible happiness. He probably even imagined, as Anders had, a life where he and Fiona and their daughter could be a family, safe and normal and...a _family_.

Instead, he'd gotten _nothing_. Fiona had gotten _nothing_. And their child was out there somewhere, now an adult who had no idea the tragedy of societal pressures that meant she lived without ever knowing either of _them _and how _her _life was the product of a fleeting and doomed love that existed even though it was never meant to be.

_It was a trap all along, and now _you're _caught, too._

Brand slid back into unconsciousness, choosing sleep over pondering the implications of _that_.

* * *

She awoke to soft fingertips against her cheeks, her vision struggling to make sense of the shape at her head, pale in the otherwise dark of the unfamiliar room.

"Hi, Momma," Bryce whispered this and she realized he was sitting on the edge of the bed next to her, his head bowed above her own. She waited for more to come, the story of how he'd found himself here and possibly what he had eaten for dinner. Instead he remained silent, his hand now brushing at her hair.

"Hi, Bryce," her voice was so quiet, it seemed a thought rather than speech.

"You're hurt," he sat up and folded his arms across his stomach, and she almost expected a lecture. "Pounce hurt me, but he was trying to help find bad people."

She almost _asked_, but decided against it. Whatever explanation he gave would have just enough details to set her to fretting without actually giving her anything to fret _about_. She noticed he was chewing on his lip, looking thoughtfully at her, and she became aware of more than just him there with her in the bed.

"Anders is hugging you," this was said with an incredible amount of frankness and more than a little _and how long has _this_ been going on_? And he _was_ hugging her, in a way. She could feel his breath in her hair, his stomach pressed against her arm and _his_ arm securely across her stomach. It wasn't _right_, though, all sensations muted as if she'd been outside in the cold for too long and her skin had gone numb from exposure.

Bryce was waiting for a response, and perhaps an explanation.

"Does Anders hugging me bother you?" He pondered this for a moment, then shook his head. "Good. Do you want to stay with me for the rest of the night? I need to sleep, and you should try, too. If you can't, though, you'll have to sit quietly. All right?"

"Sig- Sigrun let me in," he moved down so he could fit under her arm and she held onto him as tightly as she could, willing strength into her fingers so he would feel secure beside her.

A few seconds later, she heard Bryce giggle, followed by a soft snort of amusement from Anders.

"Bryce's fat belly is imposing on my hand space," this was a low murmur, and Bryce made an indignant sound then laughed again when Anders gave his stomach another gentle poke. "Ugh, you are a _noisy _thing. Some people are trying to _sleep_."

She could feel Bryce smiling against her side, and she imagined that his face must look very much like her own at that moment, especially when Anders pressed closer so his hand could cover her own at Bryce's back.

And it felt the furthest thing in the world from a trap.

* * *

When Brand opened her eyes again, Fiona sat vigil in a chair by a shuttered window, sunlight filtering in haphazardly through uneven wooden slats. _Second day of travel and we're already behind schedule._ Brand made an attempt to sit up quickly, but every muscle in her body resisted and her left arm offered no support at all, buckling uselessly beneath her weight.

"_Dammit_," she could see the elven woman watching her, face in blank observational mode. Brand wondered if Fiona could sense the ache in Brand's breast that wasn't physical hurt but _worry_.

"Did Anders tell you about the weakness?" Fiona stood and came to sit on the edge of the bed, but kept her hands close as Brand made a second effort to force herself upright. This time she succeeded. Although her head buzzed with the effort, she felt a small surge of victory.

"Sort of," Brand tried to recapture the details of her dream. "We were in the Fade, maybe? Or perhaps he told me while I slept and it seeped into my subconscious."

Fiona nodded, "He might have been able to access you in the Fade, given the sheer amount of lyrium and magic in use last night."

"Would I have been able to see Alistair's dreams?" Blood rushed to her face as soon as she asked the question, and Fiona looked distinctly taken aback.

"There's no reason...why you should have...Why do you ask?" The other woman's eyes were bright with interest. Brand had noticed her being strangely outgoing with Alistair the day before, but her flicker of curiosity had gotten buried beneath everything else that happened.

"Oh, then that must mean it was my dream and not his..._dammit_," Brand kneaded her forehead, trying to eradicate the image of Alistair and a woman who might have been her _or_ _not_. "I think the events of the past few days are starting to get to me."

Fiona wasn't listening, her brown eyes staring off someplace Brand could never hope to see. She startled suddenly, as if poked, and blinked a few times.

"Might I ask about him?" It seemed an oddly formal request, and not one Brand was in the mood to grant until she remembered that Fiona had probably spent much of the night worrying over her.

"Anders didn't put you up to this, did he?" Brand plucked at the blanket covering her legs. "I keep waiting for him to ask for more of an _explanation_, but he never does. I'm starting to think that Oghren or Zevran may have told him when he first joined the Wardens."

"So it _is_ him, the comrade you mentioned," the mage's mouth turned down at the corners and she pulled at her robes, looking discomfited by this small revelation. "He's the one you said was betrayed."

All Brand could do was nod dumbly and hope that her face didn't betray too much of anything. She wasn't even able to _identify_ all the emotions tumbling in her head like the rocks found on Eamon's body when she shook them in her hand.

"What happened?" Fiona's voice was almost otherworldly in its softness.

For a few moments, what _happened_ seemed too far away for Brand to grasp, much less dust off and regurgitate. Sure, there was the _academic_ version, but she imagined Fiona wanted more.

"We were lovers, during the Blight," and that seemed like a lie, somehow. It did _nothing_ to touch how desperately close they'd become; two people who'd lost everyone else clinging to each other to avoid adding one more name to that list. She didn't want to go beyond that, though. She scratched the surface of _truth_ but she could not bring herself to resurrect the pain that would be caused by speaking it aloud.

"You know the rest of the story. Ostagar happened, and only two Grey Wardens survived; one of us ended the Blight and the other turned his back on his country. The detail everyone omits these days is that the hero betrayed the exile by expecting him to serve alongside the man who killed his order and his brother."

"Why do you think people forget that part?" Fiona sounded genuinely curious.

"Nobody wants their hero to be less than perfect. And they don't want to put themselves into _his_ shoes, because nobody wants to think they could walk away from a house on fire knowing full well that there are still people inside screaming for help. But I don't blame him for leaving Ferelden. I made it clear that _I_ was in charge and had it _all under_ _control_."

And words could not describe the bitterness of her tone at the last bit. Before that, her voice unspooled into stillness with an eerie lack of affect, _calm_ despite the lives that were destroyed in between carefully neutral and deliberately chosen explanations.

"But you blame him for leaving you," there was an idle assumption to the way this came out that struck Brand all wrong.

"No, I _can't_. I would have done the same thing had he asked to spare Howe, knowing what _he_ took from me," that thought _burned_. "As far as I'm concerned, I failed him more than anyone had his entire life. And, considering that his real father shunted him off as an embarrassment and his foster father kept him in a hayloft until he could be packed away to the Chantry, that's an _unforgiveable_ amount of failure."

This was as much as she could bear to say, fatigue suddenly pulling her mind and body down as if it were a physical weight hanging from her. A week's worth of being near _him_ without ever truly acknowledging the things that had transpired between them- from beginning to end- was starting to take a mental toll. She gave into rest once more, even as Fiona silently absolved her of being the person who had failed Alistair the most.

That was a mantle that Fiona had borne for over twenty-five years. She wasn't about to give it up _now_.

* * *

Anders watched Brand sleep, having relieved Fiona in mid-afternoon. The day had gone by with excruciating slowness as only Bryce and Nathaniel's young nephew were able to ignore the import of the events from the previous evening. The adults sat in a pall cast by injuries and concern, even Sigrun drawn and cranky from what they all perceived as _failure_.

Ser Pounce-a-lot was the only one of them who'd actually manage to get things right; Nathaniel allowing a assassin to go undetected on the battlement, Sigrun leading Brand and Alistair out where they were easy targets _and_ not being mindful of the location of their enemies before doing so. Even Fiona and Anders had dropped the ball; only Bryce's cry when Pounce escaped had prevented one of them from being the victim of the arrow which fell the shaky shopkeep.

_And _now _we're behind schedule._ Anders made the decision to not even attempt to move Brand that morning, choosing to announce their delay via courier. Fergus would no doubt be irritated, but Anders couldn't be bothered to care. He wasn't going to allow the Cousland family impatience to infringe on Brand's much needed rest time.

Not that he wasn't thrilled when she stirred beside him where he sat reading on the bed. He'd been nursing a large mug of tea brewed with elfroot which he shared with her immediately, knowing she'd be thirsty and that the concoction would perk her up and take the edge off the headache induced by drugged sleep.

"Thank you," she buried her face against his shoulder after she'd finished drinking and he was surprised by the affectionate nuzzle. "Hmmm, where's Bryce?"

"He's playing with Will. Everyone has been instructed that _you_ are not to be bothered," he startled as her fingers began toying with his shirt fastens, lazily pulling at them until they gave. And, even though he knew the answer, "Why do you ask?"

"I dreamt about you last night," she shifted so that she could kiss him, her lips teasingly soft against his own. "I thought we might really be together in the Fade, but now I don't think we were."

"I have no memory of..._that_," her exploration began before he even opened his mouth to respond, nails dragging along his bared chest and stomach. Breath catching, his hips twitched involuntarily as she drew her body closer to his and slipped one hand past the waistband of his pants. "Brand, I really don't think this is the best idea."

But his protestation was incredibly weak, a mumbled nod towards how he'd been trying to keep _this_ from happening too soon, and how he'd wanted to wait until she was _whole _again.

He had the presence of mind to cradle her face between his palms, allowing himself a brief moment of _searching_. No pain returned. One of the side effects of the healing last night was that her sundry injuries were all but gone and there certainly _seemed_ to be nothing wrong with her as she moved against him _everywhere_, mouth on his, breasts firm at his chest and her legs rubbing along his own. Above it all, though, was her _hand_ and the way it woke him up, shoving aside anything resembling resolve as he gave them both a bit more space, unlacing his trousers and pushing them off with her help

Even though he didn't want to end this way, he luxuriated in the sensation of just being held by her, allowing himself to thrust forward into her grip a few times before he maneuvered her back onto the bed, tugging her undergarments down her legs with deliberate care, his palms dragging along her thighs and calves.

"Is this what you want?" He positioned himself on top of her; she automatically put her knees at his hips while his lighting quick hands started stroking her breasts, her stomach, and below.

"_Of course it is_," this was punctuated with a moan as he began pressing against her, shallow and deep, outside and in, and she'd been here before but this was different, this was more _everything_ as she started to move with his hand while his mouth found her nipple through the thin fabric of a chest wrap that he pulled off in one practiced motion.

He remained at her breasts for a few moments, teeth and breath taunting her, before moving _lower_ to settle at her hips, his fingers easily making their way back in and his tongue following them to begin slowly tracing a languid and unceasing path around her. If his fingers were lighting, _this_ was a whole storm and possibly an earthquake for good measure. He kept the heat rising, building steadily beneath her skin as he read her every move like she was calling out instructions and not just making incomprehensible gasps and moans.

Or maybe he'd done this so often that he was now _fluent_ in incomprehensible gasps and moans.

The muscles adjacent to where he plied were pulled tight and thrumming pleasure up her thighs and down her stomach, all shivery with anticipation. Sensing her about to come undone, he went a little faster and teased out tiny spasms that somehow pushed above the cacophony of _Maker,_ _yes_ to be echoed below and around fingers possessing more than just magic. Without warning, something electric pulsed out of his busy fingertips and shot like embers across and beneath her skin seconds before _everything _he touched ignited and she climaxed with a cry that required absolutely _no _experience to be interpreted.

"Think you have the energy to carry on?" He never ceased his efforts, but merely slowed to a lazy pace. This caused warm waves of pleasure to crest up her spine and down her legs even as the muscles between them were still sparking from the _intensity_ of it all.

Brand urged him back up. As good as it felt, and it felt better than pretty much anything _ever_, she wanted him in a hundred other ways, her entire body yearning for _more_.

He complied without hesitation, allowing himself to enjoy points of interest he'd glossed over on the way down and to catch himself on her smile, radiant. Radiant and _his_.

"I think I need to tell you how incredibly gorgeous you are, my dear," his mouth touched hers and her entire body breathed against his in response.

"Even with my scars?" Her fingers were winding into his hair, and she writhed when he responded by kissing the line by her mouth, his lips sliding down her neck to the most recent point of concern, the wound healed to a shiny, pink star below her collarbone. "Anders, I'm ready."

He lingered above her heart, the beat steady against his mouth. _He'd_ been ready for years, probably from the moment she'd set him free with a breathtaking smile that he'd been slavishly devoted to ever since. For a moment, he almost tripped over the _I can't believe that this is happening_, like a competitive jouster fumbling the lance, but he recovered when he realized that nothing could take her away from him. _Not today._

He entered her, one hand on her hip, fingers finding their place as if they were always meant to be there, his forehead pressed against her chest so he could focus only on how it felt. And it felt the way he'd always imagined, which was the same as every other woman he'd ever been inside yet distinctly _Brand_. With almost imperceptible shifts, he slid back and forth, getting a sense of her before burying himself as deeply as she would allow, reveling in heat and closeness and _her_. He startled at the needful moan this produced and the undeniable urging of her fingers at his waist.

Raising his gaze to meet hers, eyes shining yet dark, he began to thrust and it was slow, every inch of him catching on every inch of her with a pause as their hips met, and then back out.

Wherever he touched, she responded, every movement he made was intense yet muted joy. He could see her so clearly, but she'd angle herself up slightly and things would hit just a bit differently and his stomach would shiver and his vision would blur and for a few seconds he'd only have the electricity of her skin against his, her voice murmuring his name and the scent of her so maddeningly near.

_And I have her. _

This was not how he thought it would be, from the desperate way things had went before. This was more reflective of what they actually were, what this actually was. Five years of quiet devotion, of almost having but _not_ holding, of dreaming each other while entangled with nameless flings and a perfectly lovely husband that was never loved. This was orbits and not collisions, this was hope but never realization.

It was an _accomplishment_, as if it wasn't supposed to happen and they'd somehow circumvented fate and destiny and sidestepped the Maker himself to find themselves pushing and pressing against one another.

And it stretched. Their skin was slick with sweat from the effort of restraint; he ran his hand down her chest and his fingertips left dry tracks from her collarbone to the dusky peak of her nipple. Her thighs raised to replace her hands, her hands raising to curl into his hair, to pull his mouth down to hers in a silent acknowledgement that what she wanted to say was this: _thank you_, and _I love you_, and _I'm sorry it took so long for this to happen_. And he tenderly caught her lip between his teeth: _you're here now, that's all that matters_ a hundred times over.

As they neared the end, never going faster just deeper and a little harder, backs arched and hips moving in counter-circles to one another as the whole point of joining made itself plain, she stopped him with her hand splayed against his stomach, her fingernails scraping and shooting sparks up his chest and down to other places that didn't necessarily need the extra stimulation.

There was nothing she wanted to say, not anything she wanted to do but lay beneath him with her eyes closed, head tilted back and breath held still in her lungs. It was an attempt to capture something _whole_, and he also allowed himself to think it through, the way they were connected at the core, the fact that a grasp so perfectly gentle could ensnare him so completely.

He started when she twitched her hips against his in a signal to finish and things _did _go faster from there. He felt the smallest clench around him and the muscles in his legs began to tighten slightly, and every push gripped a little more. Beyond his vision, her hands fell so her fingers could twist into the sheets, gathering the fabric into her fists and using the leverage to better meet him, her thighs still propped against his waist for control that she never exerted.

She held herself up for him, moving with him and without him, hips rolling and breasts pressed skyward and from there it was just a march home. His vision narrowed on her throat, his mouth compelled forward and his tongue running unbidden to taste sweat and skin as every nerve in his body seem to redirect to the tip of him as it traced back and forth along its intended path. Heat, and patience, and delayed gratification became immediate and she came before he did, tightening around him and after him as he continued- he could feel her longing to collapse into the bed but unwilling to relinquish him.

He slid his palm beneath her for support and her hands were able to return to his shoulders. From there she ran them down his back, trying to map him in these final seconds before fire caught fire and he spilled into her with the slightest hitch and moan, then a minute's worth of slowing thrusts that made everything feel liquid and indistinct as all of him pulsed to a stop.

She fell back to earth and brought him with her, and it was fine because they had each others' arms to protect them and her lips were searching him from the outside in. Still connected, he moved them to their sides so she could venture down his neck, her mouth impossibly hot as she tasted him, her tongue burning his skin and her hands exploring his chest and arms.

As air cooled him off and she turned him back on, he touched the top of her head, smoothing mussed chestnut strands as though he could make any real difference. Then he kissed her crown, and breathed into her hair, overwhelmed by nearness and release and

"I love you."

He'd said these words before, but not to her, and he couldn't remember the faces of any of the other women who'd been on the receiving end. But he would remember this _I love you_ above all others because before it was always an overstatement and now it seemed so completely _inadequate_. He wished there was something else he could say that would express everything he was feeling, everything he had _been _feeling, since she'd smirked at him in the lower halls of the Vigil and set him free. Not even _thank you_ or _this means everything_ or _I want to be with you like this until your Calling becomes our Calling and we go into that endless night together_ were enough for what he really wanted to say.

Despite his concerns, it seemed to work for her. She moved to look him in the eye, her own glossy with gratitude, hope and the faintest sheen of distant sorrow.

"This is all a trap, you know."

He nodded and tightened his arms around her. He had known _that _since the day he discovered his pulse was destined to _always _quicken when she smiled at anyone, not least of all _him_.

"There are worse things in the world than being caught like _this_. Although I will admit to just _now _realizing that Nathaniel's sister might not be as thrilled."

She laughed, all sorrow near and far disappearing as she turned herself over to him again and _completely_, thoughts of traps, Alistair, exhaustion and Fiona's sad love affair (and poor Delilah's sheets) fading exactly the way she hoped they would when she'd first opened her eyes to find him beside her.


	27. Care

The corridors of this unfamiliar home were dark beyond the flickering candle Brand held aloft to illuminate her way.

She had no idea how late, or how early, it might actually be. A night, a day and a night spent asleep and in ecstasy had warped her sense of time. All she knew was that she'd awoken to Anders snoring into her neck and Bryce's feet in her face, the combination of that and ungodly amounts of _hunger_ enough to keep further slumber from being possible.

The kitchen was down a narrow flight of stairs and through two rooms littered with the prone bodies of her comrades. Guilt rushed through as she thought of Anders comfortable in the bed upstairs and how unfair it was that this house belonged to Nate's sister and yet _he_ was positioned awkwardly on a wooden bench, hand dangling precarious over Sigrun's small form.

Shrugging off the remorse that was still a distant second to her complaining stomach, she slid into the kitchen and set to raiding a basket of fruit that was already mostly depleted by a house full of ravenous Grey Wardens.

As she tore into an apple that might have been half-rotten for all she could tell in the relative dark, she realized that she hadn't been this _starved_ since she'd been pregnant and days spent battling nausea became nights spent alone and bingeing on anything in the Vigil that struck her as being remotely like food.

"This apple is _amazing_," she spoke to nobody in particular, turning to prop herself against the preparation counter, her legs weak from the effort of walking down a flight of stairs and just standing. She would have blamed the poison for everything, but she knew much of it had to do with the hours she spent with Anders, avoiding responsibility and trading encroaching misery for something that was anything but miserable.

Though she'd probably pay for her antics for at least a day or two, it had been worth every second. Years had passed since she'd indulged in such abandonment, and she'd forgotten how different it felt to be with someone who _consumed_ her.

The last time had been with Alistair, the night before the Landsmeet, and she was _remembering_ it with unbidden clarity, the pressure of his hands searching her suddenly a very real sensation on her skin even as the kitchen door swung open and he came through, already dressed and remarkably _fresh_.

She was in a borrowed robe, hair down and _impossibly_ mussed, and she probably had apple debris all over her chin. Too bad she couldn't feel _anything_ besides a completely unwelcome flush of heat at the center of her. _Dammit_. Now her mind turned to the dream from the night before and _that_ was even more unwelcome.

Alistair wasn't helping. He stayed on his side of the kitchen, but he was _watching_ her, his eyes black and glittering from the candlelight between them.

"Good morning," his tone was oddly formal and Brand finished her apple before responding, the sloshy _chew chew_ sounds loud in the absence of talking.

"Good morning?" She managed to locate a refuse bin lurking in the shadows at the edges of the room and disposed of the demolished apple core. "I guess I should apologize for abandoning you to a bunch of strangers."

Even in the uncertain light, Alistair was visibly surprised by this apology. He shifted, arms folding across his stomach so his hands could cradle his elbows.

"It wasn't too bad," betrayed by his voice; this was a half-truth at best. "I actually went out scouting with Nate."

Brand felt the right corner of her mouth twitch down. "_Nate" is it?_ "And how did _that_ go?"

Alistair shrugged, "Not too bad. We didn't find anything, and you'd think that the entire city of Amaranthine suffered from a simultaneous case of temporary blindness the night before, but Nate's a good...he wasn't horrible company."

Still starved, Brand caught herself rummaging through a cabinet that she hoped would yield baked goods of some sort. _Any_ sort.

"Maker, I could eat the _countertop_."

"That might be the only edible thing left in the house, well...if it were actually edible," Alistair was next to her with the candle and, for the first time in days, she wasn't unnerved by his closeness. She was just too damned hungry. "Delilah wasn't quite prepared for us, I don't think. She definitely wasn't prepared for us to be here for more than a few hours."

And that's when it hit her.

"Alistair?"

"What?"

"_You_ are standing _beside_ me," her brain did what felt like a slow somersault against her skull and she remembered an indescribably small moment from the first time they fought together in the Kocari Wilds. Ser Jory and Daveth had stepped away to relieve themselves and she'd taken a seat on a nearby log to adjust leg guards grown loose over two weeks of ceaseless walking and barely any _food_ to speak of.

Alistair stood nearby, safely distant but watching her with idle curiosity and then they heard Daveth and Jory returning, Jory complaining about the _girl_ and her _recklessness_ and _did she have a _death wish_ or something_? She'd caught Alistair's eye at that moment, knowing she must look dreadfully guilty for being every bit as reckless and death wish having as accused. Alistair served Ser Jory with a stern look, then glanced back, crossing one eye towards the bridge of his nose then following with a quick grin meant only for her.

In the present, he blinked and the room blinked with him and when everything opened up there was a pull between him and her and such a thing was _so_ unadvisable. He wavered towards her as if his mind had been co-opted by someone given to _really_ horrible ideas. Panic flared somewhere at the back of her eyes and she had to _stop_ him before he did something regrettable.

_More_ regrettable. _Andraste's ass, we are _not_ two people who should be allowed to act on whims._

"I slept with Anders yesterday afternoon," her mouth moved in silence for a few seconds after _that_ came out. _Maker_, _what are you _thinking_, Brand?_ "Like five times."

"This is news?" He'd fallen back and away from her, the pull now repulsion that wasn't right _either_, but it was familiar for who they'd become.

Brand let out a snort. "For _me_ it is. We'd not done anything yet. Well, _that_. With each other, I mean. Obviously, we've both done it with, um, _others_. All this contrary to what _Nate_ might have told you yesterday, if he could bring himself to discuss such things."

From the way Alistair's posture stiffened, Nate _had_ allowed himself to talk about _Teagan_.

"You should be flattered," the words were flaky, brittle. "He doesn't open up about Teagan to just _anyone_. Only Garavel. And _me_, when he thinks I'm enjoying my life too much. What did he tell you, exactly? I can pretty much guarantee whatever it was, the reality was about a hundred times more boring."

"He just told me that you are a good commander and arlessa," Alistair leaned his hip against the counter. "And that Teagan adored you despite his suspicions."

Whatever sarcastic, self-deprecating or pointed _thing_ Brand could usually summon at a moment like this was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was just an ache, an offended tightening of her stomach, as something she'd always believed got ripped away from her with all the finesse of an oxen stampede.

Unable to hide the tears that she knew must be even more glittery and obvious in candlelight, Brand turned away and pressed her palm against her cheek. Teagan always said he completely trusted her, and she'd thought he meant it because, well, she didn't _do_ _anything_.

"I was always faithful," she mumbled this into her hand. "I never knew...Teagan seemed so thankful and grateful towards Anders."

"Because Anders saved you and Bryce?"

Again, there was a sharp wave of dissonance and bubble-bursting reality as she realized that Alistair knew about something like _that_. Bryce's delivery was her history without him and he tossed it out in passing like...

"Yes," _and_ _don't you ever mention it again._ "I supposed Nate has conspiracy theories about _that_, too? I swear, I thought he and I were friends. I never realized he always thought of me as some sort of _whore_."

Alistair let out a sigh and it was immensely frustrating to realize that _he_ was acting like the rational one all of a sudden.

"You're overreacting. He doesn't think you're a..._that_, he just misses his friend," his voice was slightly defensive, as if Nathaniel was an old buddy and not someone he'd known for less than a week.

"_I_ was his friend. Despite _everything_. Or did you miss where I just said that?" Brand slammed the cabinet closed as frustration welled up inside her and with no real outlet. "You've been gone for, what, five years? You can't just waltz in here and act like you know..._things_ because you chatted up one of my Wardens." She gathered herself and managed to locate her tongue, "Besides, you really should have asked me if you were curious for more. I could give you a much more..._detailed_ account of our marriage, from beginning to end. I _was_ there for the _all _of it."

As he adjusted himself to face away from her, she wondered when they'd stop using sex as a way to disarm and poke at each other.

"I shouldn't have said anything," and it seemed to sum up his entire opinion about himself, which made Brand's ire fade. Then, "I actually just wanted to ask how you felt, and to thank you."

"Oh," that made her feel even more like an ass. "No need to thank me. I'd have done it for anyone."

"I'm not just talking about the arrow," he still wasn't looking at her. "You'd not have gotten poisoned if you weren't worried about me. I'd forgotten what it felt like, to have someone...well. You're the _last_ person I expected to care."

"Because I've been so awful to you?" That slipped out, full of prickly indignation. "I mean, I could have probably fed you better, and maybe not beat the life out of you at _any_ point, but I thought I was doing a pretty decent job with the _caring_."

He was trying very hard not to see her now, his face turned away. For some reason, that inflamed Brand's frustration until it became a painful thing inside of her.

"So I take it the Crows weren't very hospitable, if you've forgotten what kindness even _looks_ like."

Alistair jerked his attention back. His brows were down, his eyes narrowed dangerously and she realized, with a start, that she'd just accused this large, incredibly strong and well-trained man of being an Antivan Crow and _she_ was still weak from poisoning and over-exertion.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Not even at the Landsmeet had his tone been so filed sharp and edged in brutal cold. "Are you accusing _me _of something?"

"Yes, actually," and the relief there was unexpected, even to her. "I saved you from _assassins_, have been personally beset by _assassins_ and _assassins_ almost killed my lover and poisoned my son. Additionally, there has been at least one other attempt that I didn't even know about until a few days ago. And here _you_ are, apparently a font of information about the Crows, who are, you and I both know, an _assassins_ guild. So, _assassins_. If you can tell me _anything_ that might help me, I'd love to hear it because I don't care if you were a _killer_ in Antiva, I just want to get out of this with my family intact."

He'd drawn himself up during her outburst, flinching at every utterance of _assassins_ as if she'd punctuated each syllable with a sharp stab to his gut. Now he moved to stand directly in front of her, placing one large hand on either side of her and leaning in closer than he had any right to lean

While her mind processed his dark eyes and read _anger_ but not _threat_, her pulsed raced even as she pressed back and away from him.

"What if I _was_ a killer?" Alistair spoke as low as his voice would allow, the words paper thin on the air between them, although they cut at her as efficiently as any knife. "What if I told you that's what I _became_ when I left you? A man who would kill if killing meant ale and a bed for the night?"

Her heart was knocking against her breast so hard that she could see the thin fabric of the robe above it flickering in her periphery.

"I would say that I understood," she could not manage quiet as well as he, not without sacrificing sincerity. "I remember the refugees who attacked us in the hopes of a few silvers to split fifty ways. You left without anything but armor and some gold, getting out of Ferelden must have eaten that up-"

"Stop it," his voice had gone rough with something resembling passion. "Stop...stop making _excuses_."

"Understanding isn't an excuse," Brand's hands found their way to his chest and he was on _fire _beneath his shirt. "How many men have _I_ killed without hesitation? Hundreds? Thousands? We're Grey Wardens, we drink poisoned blood, we give up longevity and normalcy to become _better killers_. I know you want to think you're some kind of monster, but you're _not_. Monsters don't care about anything or anyone besides themselves, and you _obviously_ do. And, whatever you were before, you don't have to be that anymore."

He was staring down at her and she wasn't entirely certain he'd heard anything she said because his grasp had shifted from the counter to her waist and this time the pull was too strong and her arms between them, intended as defense, folded because she was _weak_ in more ways than one and not at all herself.

Or perhaps she _was_ herself from six years ago, young and smitten with her golden knight, who would become her golden prince. Every time their lips pressed together warmth would spread down her throat to her stomach and the world would shrink to just he and she and even if _they_ needed saving (they did_)_, saving each other _sometimes_ was much more manageable, not to mention more _fun_, than saving everyone _always_.

The heat was there, of course, Alistair ran hot and desperation made him _molten_ as his arms engulfed her. His mouth on hers was unexpectedly rough but they were working with mostly teeth and tongue now, anyway, and their bodies pressing forcefully together was shifting focus away from even _those_ things.

While every point of contact was white hot bright, assassins and running and vague worries about being Arlessa of Redcliffe were being left behind as she got carried away by his _need_. He'd often been a little _frantic_ but _this_ was a riptide that threatened to tug her from shore and if she got caught in the undertow, she certainly wouldn't be able to make it back in _this_ condition...

She gasped; Alistair responded as if it were a gasp of pleasure, one palm sliding down her back, his strong fingers sinking into her hip where not hours earlier Anders had held her with _his_ hands that had saved her a thousand times without thanks and touched her with untold amounts of want and desire but never so much _need_. But this _thing _she was caught in didn't just carry her away from worries, it would take her away from _everything_ that wasn't Alistair, even that which she wanted to keep.

The pristine memory of Anders' _I love you_ was fading and she couldn't bear to lose_ him_, even if losing him was, perhaps, the most inevitable thing in the world.

So she pushed away from Alistair with strength summoned from somewhere beyond and while the twenty-one year-old her yelped in distress at losing her anchor, the twenty-seven year-old Brand clamored for solid ground.

Not being _adrift_ was good, but not being on or in the water with a storm on the horizon was _better_.

He let go, and stood motionless in front of her, his head bowed in defeat. This meant that he was still _out there_ and had no way back to shore; he was adrift because _she'd_ taken herself away from him and _Maker_. She had betrayed him, _destroyed him_, and she remained his only hope for happiness or absolution.

"_Alistair_," they weren't totally separated, her hands remained splayed on his chest, and she relaxed them slightly in surrender _but to what?_ "I'm so sorry, but I _cannot_ give you any more than this."

He met her gaze to signal acceptance and some of the lingering tension between them was gone.

It wasn't the tension Brand _wanted_ gone, but it was a start.

"I need to get dressed," she straightened her robe. "We can get breakfast at an inn on our way. I don't want to be any more of a burden on Delilah."

Alistair nodded and spoke quietly, "I'll tell you everything I can once we leave the city. It's not much, but it might be able to help you."

"OK," Brand stepped away from him and headed towards the door that would lead her someplace safer than here. "That sounds like a plan."

* * *

The door swung shut, but Alistair did not hear anything, lost as he was in a memory.

It was in the Kocari Wilds that Brand had found that damnable barbarian helmet, delicate etchings and dangerously curved horns reflective of her own unusual beauty and deadly strength. It was finely crafted and, most importantly, goofy as could be.

As she grew less guarded around him and their companions, she began to take delight in growling and chasing him around camp with it on. After a time, he started to allow himself to be caught and they'd fall where they were and talk for a few hours, until exhaustion made them repetitive and they forced themselves to remember that there would be plenty of time to chat _tomorrow_. Despite the impossibly long days, every evening found the chase shorter, the falling closer and the conversations longer.

One night they'd gotten excited about something awesome Brand had done in battle, and they chose fighting over talking, taking leave of their companions to spar in a nearby clearing, their weapons sparking in the descending dusk and the thrill of combat with a worthy opponent, even if it was for _play_, making them perhaps a bit reckless with their strikes.

It happened so fast that Alistair couldn't even remember which of his blades struck her, but he would always remember the way the blood just appeared as if drawn by an invisible hand in a straight line from her mouth to her jaw and how it dripped, dark and glossy, down her pale throat.

He'd been horrified, reacting in a manner more appropriate for accidental dismemberment while she'd been so remarkably _all right _with everything as they grabbed their belongings and ran to the stream near camp so she could wash her face and he could awkwardly treat the injury.

It was _awkwardly_ because he was falling in love with her during battles, while they talked and even with that stupid helmet. Half of him was trying to _hide_ it and the other half was struggling to not shout it because he hoped that shouting it meant they could move from long conversations to long conversations that ended with kissing and possibly some manner of touching that would be frowned on back at the Chantry.

So there he was, trying to fix her face from where he'd _stabbed_ her, and every contact was blurring his vision as he fought to keep his dismay, his heart and his lust from overwhelming them both.

_I can't believe this happened. I actually stabbed you in the face, I am so...wait, why are you laughing?_

_Because it's incredibly ridiculous to be stabbed in the face? Especially by a...a comrade._

And the catch there, when she didn't quite know what to call him, was all he needed. He'd seen her watching him, of course, and he knew that she was close to Leliana and Zevran, but she never chased _them_ and certainly had never _tackled_ them, and she'd not hesitate to call them friends because that's what they were.

He was, apparently, _more_.

It was a testament to how _more_ he was to her that she didn't balk when he started to lay his heart out in his own imitable fashion, and it was a testament to how off they _both_ were that neither one of them found it odd that their first _real_ kiss, a warm and wonderful moment in lives short on both, was proceeded by a stabbed face.

In the kitchen in Amaranthine, Alistair felt anything but warm or wonderful as he contemplated what he'd just done, the line he'd crossed and the still lingering scent of her against him.

She'd smelled different than before, and it took him minutes to realize that part of what he had gotten off of her skin was _mage_, which made what he'd done seem so much worse in retrospect.

Actually, all of it was just as bad as could be. He'd not slept at all these past two nights, afraid for her life and her well-being, turning over all sorts of possibilities that he'd not entertained in the years he was gone. It was her eyes when she saw him injured, that moment of stark fear and concern and maybe a bit of _more_. Not love, that was reserved for Bryce and her mages, but he wasn't _just_ a man she used to know, or even _just_ an old comrade or former lover.

She _cared_ for him. Still cared, or newly cared or rediscovered cared, he didn't know for certain. But it was there and it had appeared too much like love to a man who'd not been cared for much in his lifetime and _definitely_ not recently.

And he'd been waiting for so long to be looked at and seen as a man worthy of love, that he'd not been able to resist grabbing it. Endless nights had been spent curled up on straw-filled mattresses, wishing he could allow himself solace in the arms of hollow-eyed women who offered themselves to him wherever he went. But he was unable to do much more than remember Brand's skin against his and the press of need just beneath his breastbone.

Need for _her_. It had never faded the way it should have, because he nurtured it with memories and dreams. In the kitchen, he realized that he could close his eyes and think about that first kiss, that _real_ kiss, and Brand's face when they parted was still injured, but _she_ was starry-eyed as she stumble-stepped back into his embrace and everything was set for their affair to tuly begin.

A few days ago he would have been glad that this moment remained untarnished but now it only threw into sharp relief how _this_ first kiss had ended with him being pushed away and her quiet panic as she all but ran to leave him. His chest tightened and he cursed the hands that had betrayed him first.

He'd only been grateful and glad for proof that she _cared_.

Somehow, no matter what small victory he might have, he would always find a way to make it hurt in the end.

* * *

Brand took the stairs as quickly as her legs would allow, the dark no challenge for her own drive to get _away_.

Her room was the second door on the left, at the first she heard the familiar music of Bryce giggling and she paused to listen as the ideas of childish conversations filtered out of what must be Will's nursery. She wasn't entirely surprised to discover her son was up and about, he'd probably snuck out after her.

Deciding to leave him to enjoy some more time with a rare playmate, she let herself back into the guest bedroom where Anders was still in bed but half-seated with his book about Warden mages propped on his knees in front of him.

He didn't look up when she entered, his finger jabbing emphatically at the page as he let out a small, triumphant noise.

"Did you know that the Chantry actually encouraged Circles to allow Wardens to train their apprentices? I wonder how Revered Mother Stick-Up-Her-Ass would faint away if anyone were to suggest such a thing for Ferelden's sacred Circle?"

Brand pulled at her robe, only half listening, but wholly wanting to shove that book aside and take its place in his lap, to brighten corners of her mind that Alistair had shaded in with his touch.

"Are you looking for a new appointment?" She decided to at least _try _him, the dressing gown sliding away from her shoulders as he looked up with a startled expression that turned immediately pleased when he realized she was advancing, losing clothing in the process.

"Are you _kidding_?" The tome was tossed aside and he drew the covers away from himself in invitation. She found her way to the bed, straddling his thighs. "I just think it's a good practice, is all. _Practical_, too. Which is why the Chantry stopped doing it, I imagine."

She only nodded and leaned forward, her hands sinking against the bed as her teeth began working their way down his neck and her hips moved at a slow grind against him.

"Brand?" His voice was somewhat choked, as if he had forced the syllable out and she pulled back in alarm. "What's wrong?"

There was no way he should be able to tell _anything_ was wrong with her; she'd not really cried and she should have no marks to speak of, even though the kiss had been remarkably _hard_. Despite this, he was looking at her with brows down in concern as his hazel eyes searched her face.

"Alistair kissed me, in the kitchen," _please don't hate me, please don't hate me_. "And I didn't stop him as quickly as I would have liked to."

For a long moment his gaze remained somewhere above her even though he ran his palm up her arm, this brief contact somehow helping to ease a bit of the panic that gripped her.

"But you _did_ stop him?" his eyes found hers and they were unreadable.

"Of course," she rolled away so she was on her side next to him. "And I don't think he meant it...he's been lost for so long and now he's surrounded by strange people and strange circumstances and only _I'm_ familiar."

"But it's complicated," Anders slid down a little and moved to face her.

"Neither of us got a chance to really…_deal_ with what happened," her tone was surprisingly conversational. "We were in love up until the moment I betrayed him and he left. All these years have gone by with no contact, or closure, and now we're thrown together and he doesn't know who he is anymore, or where he's supposed to be."

"Do _you_ know where he's supposed to be?" His finger tips were tracing along her neck to move hair away from her bared shoulder. She wanted to stop talking and just let him continue, because she was incredibly open to how _this_ could end. But talking wasn't as hard as she thought it would be. Perhaps her conversation with Fiona the day before had loosened something in her, or relieved some of the pressure built up from years spent burying what had happened rather than think it through.

"No. I honestly don't know," his mouth was now where his hands had been, hot against her shoulder as his tongue flicked against her skin. "I think being a Warden again might do him some good, or maybe he could become a knight. But, beyond _that_…"

"Is he supposed to be with you?"

"Maybe in another lifetime," she caught herself shifting to better feel him. "But even if the Landsmeet would have gone differently, he was betrothed to Anora. So…maybe not even in another lifetime."

"But _definitely_ not this one?" He pulled back a bit. She saw the barest glints of hope and _sympathy_ in his eyes.

"Definitely not this one," and she didn't even have to think about it, nor did she want to. "I don't know if it's possible for us to ever _fully_ recover. We both lost so much…and besides, I've got my eye on someone else."

"Oh, _really_?" Recognizing that she had met her limit on discussing Alistair, his lips twisted into a suggestive grin, "I imagine he must be quite handsome to attract _your_ fleeting attention."

"_Eh_," Brand shrugged one shoulder then fell onto her back. "He's all right to look at, I suppose, and once he's gotten some more experience under his belt he might even be able to pull his weight in bed." She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and let loose a dramatic sigh. "But I can tell it's going to take quite a bit of _training_."

Anders looked thoughtful before responding.

"Hands on?"

"Oh, hands _everywhere_."

* * *

Breakfast was runny eggs and toast at the Crown and Lion Inn, their odd little group hardly out of place in a crush of odd people.

Alistair had almost forgotten the assortment of humanity that these places attracted, and at such an ungodly hour. It wasn't that he'd been away for so long, it's just that he was almost always drunk when on this side of a tavern door and _never _at a table with a cat and a child who seemed less intent on food than he did on humming tunelessly to himself and watching the adults around him with his knowing green eyes.

Brand was seated at a small table with Fiona and Sigrun, while Bryce, Anders, Nathaniel and Alistair shared a longer table with a group of sailors preparing to return to sea as soon as the weather promised to cooperate.

"Blasted wind is blowing fit to take a whore's dress clean off, mate," a man with a fishhook shaped scar on his cheek winked at Alistair as if he sensed him a kindred spirit and Bryce took this in with a subtle jerk of his eyebrow and a bemused twitch of his lips.

"I'm certain Brand would be _thrilled_ if you picked up that expression," Anders dipped a piece of bread into his eggs and handed the soppy yellow mess to Ser Pounce, who was positioned on an unused portion of Bryce's chair, watching his mage with an air of polite anticipation.

"Like _Andraste knicker's weasels_?" Bryce immediately covered his mouth after saying this and the sailors stopped their chatter with identical expressions of _did that little boy just...?_

"Yes, like _that_," Anders glanced back at Brand, who appeared just mildly mortified. "You know, I think I liked you better when your vocabulary consisted of the words _cat_, _butt_ and _help_."

"Must have made for _fascinating_ conversation," the words darted out of Alistair's mouth, decidedly mocking in tone.

The mage offered Alistair a frosty glare and smirked.

"Oh, you'd be surprised. I'd say conversing with Bryce while he was in swaddling clothes was more intellectually stimulating than any chat I could have with a washed-up drunk in a tavern somewhere."

"Maybe we should go, yes?" Brand was up and behind Anders with their packs before anyone else could respond. "Lest you and Bryce get us jumped by washed-up drunks and devout Andrastians."

With Brand standing, Alistair noted the sudden appearance of an ebony eyed man in the corner. He was lithe, diminutive and wore plain traveling leathers that were _so _non-descript they immediately set off alarms in Alistair's head. While his focus was centered on Brand, Alistair could see his attention flickering to all of the Wardens positioned around her.

_He's either scouting or preparing for an attack._

Alistair felt his posture go automatically defensive and his foot shot out to tap against Anders', whose response went from _sod off_ to _oh, Maker_ in the span of three seconds, once he'd seen the way the suspicious stranger was absorbed with his commander.

The mage closed his eyes and looked momentarily withdrawn, although his lips moved in silence and Alistair could feel the sudden squirm of _Magic!_ deep in his stomach, an ingrained reaction from his templar training. After that, it was easy to detect the increasing light filtering up from Anders' lap as he put together a spell that would, hopefully, make their exit from this place slightly less bloody.

Unfortunately, Alistair wasn't the only one who realized what was happening beneath the table, one of the sailors dropping his tankard of ale with a resounding clatter and then letting loose a scream the likes of which Alistair had never heard from a grown man _or_ woman.

"He's gonna turn us into something horrible!" One rough and filthy finger pointed at Anders and the voice behind it grew even more wildly hysterical, "Him's the one who attacked in the market the other night!"

Anders maintained his concentration throughout the accusation, but the sailor with the fishhook scar was less subtle, pushing at the heavy table and sending it crashing against everyone on the opposite side, including Anders and _Bryce_, who spilled back, falling from his chair to the floor with a sharp cry of pain.

And it wasn't the force that broke Anders but the _yelp_ and he lunged to help Bryce while Brand wheeled around to see the source of their concern sliding towards her with blades drawn.

_This_ was what kept the room from plunging into chaos: the incredibly surreal notion of an armed assassin pushing through a tavern crowded with patrons enjoying their breakfast ale to confront a woman who looked nothing like _anyone_ who should be getting attacked.

Only now Brand had weapons in _her_ hands, but they were behind her back and Alistair had spent so much time beside her in combat that he could see the weakness in her posture, her left shoulder up higher than normal to compensate for the damaged muscle in her arm. Fortunately, here was nothing weak about the rest of her stance- feat apart, chin down, eyes straight ahead and focused on the incoming attack.

"Good morning, Commander Cousland," the attacker's voice came out flat and unaccented, his fingers visibly tightening and loosening on the hilt of his silver daggers. "I hope I did not interrupt your breakfast; I try _very_ hard to not be rude."

Alistair felt his stomach lurch and the faintest hint of what _this_ might be wormed its way into his brain.

_This is for show._

He stood and stepped confidently around the table to take a place beside Brand, his expression mirroring her own and his posture unwaveringly powerful. Dark eyes shifted from woman to man and back and the tavern lamplight caught iridescent in the beads of sweat that appeared fresh on his upper lip.

"Your numbers in Amaranthine have been exhausted," Alistair spoke softly, his attention never leaving the assassin. "This is a desperate attempt at the most, a signal at the least."

"You can guess all you want, but you do not know," his back foot slipped nervously, but that, too, was so _normal_ for a situation such as this and Alistair was not surprised when the assassin lunged towards Brand. He _was_ caught off-guard by the crack of lightning that split the room into blackness and brightness and even the two of them were affected, lingering shocks crackling harmlessly across their skin and hair as the air filled with the scent of charred flesh and smoldering wood.

Everyone remained still for a long moment until Brand fell to her knees and began pulling at the dead assassin's leathers in an attempt to recover _anything_. At her signal, Nathaniel and Sigrun moved to evacuate the inn and Fiona went to Brand's side to check for injuries obtained from the lightning.

Brand came away clean, and so did Alistair. Then the elf turned her attention to Anders, who remained seated on the floor, his back pressed to the fallen table top. Bryce was in his lap, his small hands held tight between Anders' as if the mage was warming them. For the first time since Alistair had met them, both man and child appeared terrified.

"What were you _thinking_?" Fiona fumed towards her fellow mage as Brand found her feet. "You could have killed any number of bystanders."

"He saved us, Fiona," Brand's tone was weary as she found her dropped pack and pulled out a coin purse. "Although, that _was_ a rather excessive show of force. Are both of you all right?"

"I panicked," his hands moved to press against Bryce's forehead, and a golden wave of light washed down the boy, the fear visibly ebbing away with it. "I was ready to cast a much bigger spell and...I just lost my train of thought when Bryce fell. But we're ok, aren't we?"

Bryce nodded, although his eyes remained dark.

Brand counted out several sovereigns to cover damages, unpaid tabs and whatever business the tavern would lose until they could reopen before trying to ask a few questions of the newly placated innkeeper and his dwarven bartender.

As it was with word from the night they arrived, nobody saw, heard or knew _nothing_.

Disappointment clear on her face, Brand gave her companions indication that it was time to move on from Amaranthine. They stepped out into a downpour that chased them for miles down the road towards Highever.

Any intentions Alistair had of speaking with Brand about his insight into the Crows had to be put aside when they were all forced by the driving rain to ride inside the cab. Fiona perched awkwardly next to him. Brand was across from Fiona, her head on Anders' shoulder as Bryce sprawled across their laps, not sleeping but staring at the grey sky as it rolled by.

His eyes were shadowed with worry beyond his years and not even Brand rubbing his back and Anders' attempts to cheer him did anything to improve a mood as somber as Ferelden appeared beyond their carriage, shrouded as it was in the sort of relentless gloom that settled into bones and made everything but greyed-out landscapes and melancholy seem distant and unlikely.


	28. Need to Know

Lunch was cheese and bread taken in the carriage as it pushed westward towards Highever, the rain unrelenting and turning the road beneath them to muck that sucked at their wheels and the horses' hooves. Due to the weather, they didn't make it into Gosport, the closest settlement to Amaranthine, until well after the world had darkened around them.

Gosport consisted of a cluster of about thirty stone homes on a low bluff overlooking a bay lined with the basics- a general store, an inn, a commerce office, and a Chantry. Further up the road and on a higher bluff, there was a keep overlooking this sparse collection of humanity. The lord here was Bann Fuller and he was notable throughout the arling for being engagingly eccentric.

"We'll probably see Fuller at the inn," Brand smirked, the first real expression she'd put on since they began their day's travels. "Trying, as ever, to get up Erin's skirts."

Erin was one of the siblings who operated the Brother and Sisters Inn. While the building itself was weather-beaten bordering on dilapidated, the establishment was one of the highlights of traveling the coastlands. The Amells, Erin, Beatrice, and Coire, were quick-witted and good-hearted and they filled their tavern with laughter, games and some of the best food to be found in all of Ferelden.

Ducking in from outside, especially in inclement weather, was like stumbling into a different world. The interior of the inn was cozy despite high ceilings and lit warmly with strategically placed lamps and candles that made the entire place glow. Tables were kept to the edges of the common room, one side for dining and the other for recreation.

On a normal night, Brand would be happy to surround herself with the high spirited Amells, but this was not a normal night. Besides Bryce, who had remained morose all day, Anders was also uncharacteristically withdrawn. As soon as they realized Bryce was settled into a mood, Anders had given up on being cheerful _or_ social.

Then there was the small matter of Beatrice Amell, the eldest of the three. Bea was pretty, pink-cheeked and voluptuous with glossy honey-brown hair and a dizzy, inviting smile. More importantly, she was the only other woman Anders had ever seemed to actually _care_ about in the five years that Brand had known him. He'd briefly left the Wardens a few months before Teagan's death and, although it was under the guise of traveling, Brand had assumed he would end up either settling in Gosport or whisking Bea away to join him in his new life as a wandering apostate.

The group was accosted as soon as they entered the foyer, which was a spacious room decorated in whimsical paintings and sculptures crafted by the siblings themselves. It was Erin who greeted them, curly black locks hastily pinned away from her round, freckled face. She was the youngest of the trio, not yet twenty, but she had become a favorite of Lord Fuller, despite her common status. Unlike her sister, who had a convivial manner even when she was teasing one of their patrons, Erin's sense of humor was far more pointed and her dark eyes sparked with mischief even as she offered a polite bow to Brand.

"Commander! We heard that you were traveling!" She was already pulling out the room records to make their accommodations. "Although we hoped you'd arrived sooner. We just ran out of that tea from Seheron you love. Won't get more for another week. Of course, you're always welcome to stay until we do."

Her gaze flitted to Alistair, who, to Brand's amusement, seemed to find the young woman quite intriguing.

"Who told you we were coming through?" Brand was not upset to hear their arrival had been announced, she imagined that word of much worse would be spreading soon enough _if it hasn't gotten around already_.

"You'll have to ask Bea," this time Erin's eyes sought out Anders. "She's the one who can get people to talk about these things."

Brand felt a pinprick of jealousy when she saw Anders' face brighten slightly at the mention of Bea's name and, as if that's all it took to summon her, she was in the doorway between the foyer and the dining room, looking uncommonly bright and pretty as a new copper.

Seeing her made Brand feel about a million things- scrawny, scraggly and broken not the least amongst them.

"Good evening, Commander!" She was too polite to jump directly to Anders, although her excitement at seeing Brand and Fiona _was_ genuine. "Your brother's messenger was by a few days ago, stopped for a rest so he wouldn't kill himself on the road. Said you'd be heading to Highever," she turned to Erin. "Have you assigned their rooms yet, sister?"

"Yes, in the one minute since they've walked through the door I've gotten them checked-in," the curve of her mouth belied the bite of her tone.

"One _minute_? You should have this down to half that by now," Bea went to look at the ledger over Erin's shoulder. "Do you at least know how many rooms they need?"

"We'll need one single, two double-singles and one double," Brand paused to rework the math in her head.

"Actually, can we get two singles?" This request came from Anders, who was watching Bea over Bryce's head, the child dozing in his arms.

"Um," Brand felt her cheeks go crimson. "Yes, of course."

"Did you get that, sister?" Bea was on the move again, catching Brand's elbow to lead her into the dining room.

"Yes, yes. I'll have your keys to you in a few moments," Erin gave Bea a meaningful look and Brand was starting to get the sense that this was another horrible miscalculation on her part.

It wasn't long, though, before they were comfortably seated with warm ciders in front of them and listening to Coire Amell talk about The Beards of Gosport, a new "social club" formed by the men in the area.

"And we all have to grow great, burly beards and whoever ends up with the burliest beard by Wintersend wins," Coire scratched at his own coppery scruff, which was in sharp contrast to his disheveled thatch of dark brown hair. "I imagine the only worthwhile prize will be getting to _shave_."

Brand shifted in her seat, ill at ease despite the handmade cushions beneath her backside. Anders was not with them. _Anders_ was at the bar, talking to Bea, their heads close and their conversation involving hands being placed on each other's arms with alarming frequency. Erin breezed by them and received orders of some sort from her sister, which sent her hurrying to the foyer.

"We're locking up for the night," Coire had a wash cloth and he held an end in each hand, twirling it until it wrapped tight around itself and then snapping one end at his sister as she approached.

"Ow," she took a seat next to Nathaniel, who blushed a bit under her gaze. "The kitchen is still open. We have some coddle made fresh this afternoon and a loaf of soda bread straight from the oven, if you'd like it."

Brand's stomach growled at the mention of food and they all agreed that stew sounded like an excellent idea after traveling in the chill and rain. Erin left to get their order together and Coire placed one large hand on Brand's shoulder.

"I think I could play a round of Alouette," he gestured to an empty table on the other side of the common room. "Would anyone like to join me? I've been on a losing streak this week, so if you're feeling lucky you might want to place a wager."

Sigrun all but bounced out of her chair. Card games were her favorite thing outside of...outside. Nathaniel watched his fellow Warden with amusement and shrugged, "I'm not feeling _unlucky_, so maybe I can make enough coin to buy another round of cider."

Coire held his hand out towards Fiona, "We need one more, m'lady, and I know how you adore wiping the floor with me."

The last time they stayed, Fiona had pocketed almost ten sovereigns in winnings from the very game they would be playing. Brand waved her hand in an encouraging gesture. If everyone else was occupied, she could at least talk to Alistair about the Crows, the one thing likely to keep her from thinking about Anders and Bea, who were now practically in each other's laps at the bar.

Fiona relented, allowing herself to be lead by Coire across the room, his height and broad-shoulders making her seem far more petite than she actually was.

Brand and Alistair sat in silence for several minutes, staring into their mugs and enjoying being indoors and _not_ swaying down a bumpy road. Bryce slept soundly on a nearby bench, wrapped in Anders' cloak, a ribbon of drool connecting his mouth with the fabric.

"So what is your boyfriend _doing_, exactly?" Alistair's tone was carefully neutral when he asked this. Brand knew she should just ignore him, but she was trying to figure out the very thing, frustration at her own stupid jealousy making everything seem so much worse than it really was.

"Beatrice is a..." Brand wasn't quite sure how to put it. Anders had several ex-lovers, half-finished flings and women he'd kissed and forgotten. But Bea was not like those women to him, and he'd never really talked to Brand about her besides to make that point. "She has a twin sister in the Circle. I think her name is..._Lucille_. Anyway, Bea was supposed to help Anders evade the templars the last time he escaped the Tower. He ended up in the Wardens before he made it to Gosport, but we stayed here a few times and they..."

"Bonded?" Alistair lips quirked and he had to know Brand would get the insinuation.

"Yes," Brand hated how cranky she sounded. "Anders and Lucille were friends and Bea is hugely pro-mage freedom. She's also pretty which is all he _really_ needs to be impressed."

_Good thing you look so nice in green, Brandelyn. _

From Alistair's expression, she could tell that he agreed about the pretty. It didn't help that Erin was approaching with their wooden bowls of stew, her cheeks rosier than normal as she carefully set their food in front of them, her eyes never leaving Alistair.

"So, Bann Fuller didn't make an appearance this evening?" Brand hoped that this didn't come out as tersely as it felt on her tongue. The question startled Erin but she recovered with a wry grin.

"Turns out he was able to find himself a noble woman who could withstand his...weirdness," Erin pushed a few curls from her forehead."They're not yet wed, but she's already moved into his estate. I think she's from Navarre, maybe? Has a ton of staff with her, giggly women who come down here every morning and flirt with Coire. Fuller hasn't visited since he announced his betrothal," she ducked her head in embarrassment. "For..._obvious_ reasons."

Brand snatched a piece of bread and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly as an excuse to not comment. As arlessa, she should have known that Bann Fuller was engaged to a noblewoman from Navarre. It was her business to make these trivialities her business.

"How long has this been going on?" She spoke with her mouth full.

Erin shrugged and gathered their empty mugs, "Lady Isobel arrived...a week before Satinalia, I believe. I'd ask Bea if you want an exact date...she'll remember better than anyone."

She left them to their dinner, hustling to serve the others who were involved in what sounded like a very intense and entertaining game of cards.

"I suppose now is a good time to talk," Alistair had somehow demolished almost half of his coddle, along with most of their bread.

"_Maker_, I forgot how you could eat," not that Brand had room to judge, as she was quite capable of packing it away. "Anyway, yes. Tell me what you know."

He ceased his shoveling and leaned back in his chair, eyes contemplative.

"You know a little about the Crows, from Zevran and those contracts we took during the Blight, right?"

Brand gave a short nod.

"Well, I thought _I_ knew about the Crows, too. I was doing some _mercenary_ work in the Free Marches and it wasn't going too well. I met this Antivan named Nico who said he could get me a job if I wanted to go with him back to Antiva," from the tone of his voice when he said _Nico_, this was the most positive memory he had of the man. "So I agreed. Anything had to be better than the situation I was in, right?"

"I assume," she longed to ask for details, but _details_ might be the sort of thing that could drag her down roads she truly did not wish to travel.

"The work seemed incredibly straightforward. At first," he paused and stared into his cider, obviously wishing it was something much, much stronger. "You see, the Crows aren't just assassins. They're _infiltrators_ and they've created a web within Antivan society that makes it _theirs_. Everything anyone does in Antiva comes into contact with this web."

"So you were actually working for the Crows?" She twisted slightly to better see him, suddenly fascinated by what he was saying. "Unknowingly, of course."

"_No_," this was absolute. "I _never_ worked _for_ the Crows, knowingly or _unknowingly_," he took a long swig of cider, his throat strenuously working to make it the most involved drink of beverage _ever_. "I was a messenger, of a sort, for a company that got information on planned hits and warned the marks of their impending assassinations. I'd get a handful of stones, an address, sometimes a name, and Nico and I would ride to that address and tell them they'd had a contract put out for them. We'd give them the stones and leave."

"Wait...what?" This made no sense to Brand _as a business_, "How does one make money off of this sort of thing? Wouldn't the Crows just keep trying? And...what did the stones mean?"

Now Alistair looked extraordinarily guilty, and his face had gone a strange shade of yellow that did not suit him _at all_. Running her finger along the table to mop up some gravy that had dribbled from her spoon, she then wiped her hand on the napkin beside her plate. She wanted him to realize that he could take his time, she wasn't going to force this out of him.

"Those are all questions I _should_ have asked myself before I got involved," his fingers twitched against his mug. "As it was, I thought I was doing something _good_ for a change." He winced at this slip.

"How did you discover you _weren't_ doing something good?"

"I...," his eyes darkened. "Nico started to hint at a promotion for both of us. He begged, actually, and we were shifted to the second leg- which was getting an address and an explanation for the stones we were to pick up from the mark. Depending on what stones _they_ had, we'd either act as bodyguards for a while or we'd escort them to a safe house where they'd meet with some of our higher-ranking staff."

"Oh, _Alistair_," Brand could see where _this_ story was going. "After you left, they'd be offered protection from the Crows, wouldn't they? For some exorbitant amount, I imagine."

"Very, _very_ exorbitant," his entire face went still, this reflected in his voice. "I thought I was saving lives, but I was only helping some opportunists take advantage of the assassin culture. I guess _some_ people were able to cough up the gold and get out, but the Crows were always going to be more powerful. They were basically just...prolonging their lives for a few months."

"Did you quit when you found out what they were doing?" It was a loaded question, the answer for which would tell her exactly how far removed the Alistair next to her was from the Alistair she'd loved before.

"No," and her heart broke, even though he said this with a lifetime's worth of regret. "I..._couldn't_. The web, you know. Even if I wasn't working for the Crows, the Crows knew about us. _Of course_. It was Crows who tipped us off. If we were successful, they'd get a portion of the protection money and either information as to where the mark would be going or proof of the kill. Either way, they could eventually collect on their contracts."

"Would they have killed you?" She was wholly entranced by now, all concerns about her son and Anders distant to these machinations. Somewhere within them was Alistair's soul and, possibly, some insight into what was happening to _her_.

"Worse," unspoken was something like _death would have been welcome_. "I had no idea how horribly ruined a person could be until I met a man who'd wronged the Crows. And _this_ is saying something, because I consider myself to be pretty ruined. This man, though, had unspeakable things done to his family and the abuse they saved for him was..." Alistair shuddered and looked as if he might cry. "But they left him alive. And they also told him that if he killed himself, they'd do what they did to _him_ to everyone he loved. I was afraid, for myself and for anyone I had ever known."

Without thinking, Brand put her hand on his shoulder in reassurance. A knot of self-loathing had formed between his eyes as he relived this realization of entrapment. She wondered again what exactly had happened in the Free Marches that made him feel like work in_ Antiva_, of all places, would be preferable.

After a few minutes, during which Coire let Erin take over for him at the game ("She can't lose any worse than I already am!") so he could bring Brand and Alistair fresh tankards of cider, Alistair regained his composure.

"This place is so…comfortable," he shifted slightly in his chair. "It's almost surreal."

Brand had to agree. Even with the unpleasant conversation and Anders still shoulder to shoulder with his former _whatever_, Brand was feeling more relaxed than she had in _weeks_. They were the only guests in the common room and there was something incredibly nice about seeing people she cared about enjoying themselves the way Sigrun, Nate and even Fiona were. Not to mention the food was delicious and the cider close to _divine_.

"I'm almost half afraid we're going to wake up tomorrow on a ship bound for Rivain, victims of drugged beverage and the Amells' considerable charms," Brand was only mostly joking; it seemed as likely to happen as anything else that had occurred this past week.

A genuine chuckle rumbled up from Alistair's chest.

"Whatever they'd get for us would barely cover our drink tab. You'd think they'd be more efficient if this was something they did often," he shot a smile at Brand and, as her face went warm, she had the sudden urge to get their conversation back to a darker topic.

"You obviously broke free somehow. What happened?"

"I was unbelievably lucky," he ran his finger along the rim of his tankard, smile dead on his lips. "Nico and I managed to stay on the non-threatening side of the operation, but there was pressure being put on the Crows from someplace else and that meant pressure was being put back on _us_. The jobs got more dangerous, we were getting beat to marks on a regular basis, and a few of the other messengers disappeared. Then, one night, I…" his face was momentarily plaintive. "I tried to do something _more_ for a change, but I failed. The mark was killed in my presence. We could get away with being beat, but to lose a potential client once they were in our custody was…inexcusable."

Quiet lingered over their corner of the room, punctuated by a whoop from Fiona that made both Brand and Alistair look up. The mage caught Brand's eye and offered a proud smirk.

"Sigrun owes me five sovereigns."

"That's because you _cheat_, how do I know you can't read minds?"

Fiona laughed, "I think I'd have won more than five gold were _that_ the case."

"You're just trying to be sneaky," Sigrun hated losing card games as much as she adored playing them. "Maybe you should have been a rogue and not a mage."

"Maybe _you_ should have been a mage and not a dwarf. That's just as likely to happen," Fiona was rarely this _carefree_ and Brand caught her dark eyes dart towards Alistair, her expression shifting to one of clear affection.

_Maker help me, does she have a _thing_ for _Alistair_?_

If Alistair noticed the attention, he didn't let on, lost as he was in a world of assassins and bad decisions. Brand shoved down the admittedly off-putting notion _Fiona_ and _Alistair_, and settled back to continue their conversation.

"Was it a woman?" She thought of her dream from the night before last, the blue-eyed beauty murmuring in Antivan incomprehensible words that nonetheless itched along her skin as if they were ants or flies.

"What?" His expression said _yes_ even as he shook his head. "That's not important. What's important is that I was going to be killed for my mistake. The men I worked for couldn't handle loose ends the way the Crows could. So I turned myself in, only to discover my bosses no longer existed and that the Crows had recently seen a…turnover in management."

"_Zevran_," Brand breathed those two syllables, imagining her Zevran the way he appeared when he came to her months earlier, the spark in his golden eyes harsher now and the lines on his face deeper.

"So you know," Alistair buried his head in his hands, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the things he'd seen and done. "I never actually _saw_ him, but it was made very clear that _he_ wanted _me_ to leave Antiva as fast as I could. And I did. I kept waiting for the knife in my back, expecting this was his revenge for me leaving you, but none came. I encountered a few Crows on my way back to the Free Marches, but they were all part of the new regime and seem to know that I was protected."

"I wonder if he knew, then," Brand was talking mostly to herself, her brain whirring as she recalled the way Zevran had proposed her interference with Alistair's assassination contract. His issue with it had been the suspicious lack of information. _Or so he said_. She closed her eyes and tried to think of one good reason why Zevran would want her involved in this mess.

Maybe he genuinely wished for Alistair to live and knew Brand was the only way to ensure this could happen without defaulting on the contract.

But why would he want Alistair _alive_? Zevran expressed much…not disgust, really, but _dismay_ when Alistair had disappeared. Of course, Zev viewed her recruitment of Loghain as a pragmatic decision, one that would benefit them _all_ in the end. He saw Alistair's abandonment of Ferelden, and of Brand in particular, to be cowardly and not at all in keeping with the other man's professed devotion to his fellow Warden.

None of this made any sense, really, and thinking about the possibility that Zevran was knowingly involved in an _offensive_ way made her absolutely ill.

"So what can you tell me about all these _signals_ or whatever that the Crows seem to be trying to send?"

Alistair raised his head and frowned.

"That's the thing I actually can't figure out. Besides the men who attacked you outside of the Vigil, none of these recent attempts on your life have been carried out in any particularly _competent_ way. Now we _both_ know Zevran's mission failed, and the second attempt to kill you _both _was also a bust…"

"There was another contract taken out, shortly after the Blight. They tried twice and, obviously, were not successful."

"Maybe you're just assassin-proof?" This seemed to amuse him in a distant way. "But it seems as though they're not trying very hard this time. The man at the tavern this morning was so _obvious_, like he was only there because it would get people talking."

Brand sat up straight, "Talking about what?"

"The Crows could sometimes do more damage to certain parties through rumors. Most of these were spread word of mouth, distasteful murmurings that were usually just true enough to drive the target self-destructive with fear," he paused, worry creasing his brow. "I think they're trying to force you into doing something very public and very foolish. Either that, or they think rumors of you getting into knife fights in the streets of major cities will be enough to undo public opinion."

She scoffed slightly, and planted her elbows on the table in front of her. "They'll have to do better than _that_, I say. Which they could, quite _easily_. I'm surprised that nobody has thought to play the…"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Everyone in the inn startled at the sound coming from outside, but nobody quite as much as Alistair. He was on his feet, dagger at the ready before anyone else could react beyond a frightened jump.

He felt resoundingly foolish, they all did, when it turned out to be Coachman Gil, his white beard dripping rivulets of rain down the front of his cloak. For a moment, he stood in the doorway to the common room, the ensuing silence deeply awkward. Then Coire stepped forward and threw his arm around the older gentleman.

"You, sir, might possibly have the greatest beard I have _ever_ seen," his free hand stroked at his own chin. "Any chance that I might borrow it just before Wintersend? I promise to give it back, good as new."

"Don't listen to him," Bea slid off her barstool and flanked Gil, catching his elbow while seemingly oblivious to the water that soaked him through and the vaguely lascivious way his eyes roamed to her ample chest. "We _all_ know that Coire will do all sorts of unspeakable things to a beard so fine as yours. _I_ say you join the club, show up at Wintersend and steal away the competition. And if _someone_ happens to make a tidy sum from a placed wager, I'm certain she, or _he_, would be more than willing to split the coin."

"I think he'd like to do more than _split coin_ with you, sister," Erin quipped this from the bar, and her remark was greeted by the sort appreciative but tired laughter that marked the end of a pleasant evening. Coire escorted Gil to his room, Bea and Erin began clearing the tables, and all of Brand's Wardens came shuffling back, three arguing about how much gold was too much gold when it came to gambling with comrades and the fourth lost in thought.

Brand was about to _give_ him a thought to get lost in when he swerved and went back to Bea, pulling her aside for another low conversation that kept their faces too close.

"Alistair, would you get Bryce for me?" Alistair did as requested, scooping the child easily in his arms and Brand looked to Anders, but Anders was still _distracted_ and he remained so until Bea sent him off with a gentle shove, her green eyes catching Brand's own as he closed the distance between them.

They were full of sympathy, and Brand had no idea what she was supposed to do with _that_.

She followed Alistair up the portrait lined staircase at the back of the inn, her gaze drawn to the way Bryce's face looked smushed against the broad shoulder, his round cheek encroaching on one closed eye and his hair, in desperate need of cutting, flopping across his smooth forehead.

Despite the innocence of it, a wave of fear washed through her, the sudden terror of _what would happen_?

What _would_ happen if she were to actually meet her end within the next few days? Where would Bryce go? Who would take him there? She knew that Oghren was in position to succeed her as Warden-Commander and the Arl of Amaranthine, but she'd somehow not made a contingency plan for her _son_ since Teagan had died.

Stopping on the stairs, she whirled around to confront Anders, who was still _thinking_ although he _was _doing so incredibly close behind her.

"Will you take him?" She _had_ to look insane, but Anders' expression remained nonplussed.

"I had planned on it," he shrugged one thin shoulder. She felt her face scrunch in confusion.

"You'd _planned_ on it? You've actually..._thought_ about it?"

_This _got his attention.

"Yeeees," he leaned against the wall, his hazel eyes bright in the lamplight. "You know he won't sleep through the night, and you need the rest. I thought I'd take the double single and you'd be able to _not_ have to worry about waking up to him poking at you." He then slipped back into himself for a moment, "Or, you know, _me_ poking at you."

There was a pause. Brand was very afraid she might say something along the lines of how she didn't _mind_ being poked at, which would probably make everyone else in the stairwell come to the conclusion that she was possibly the worst mother ever. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself and frowned.

"OK?" They looked at each other for a long moment, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them. "Did I do something to _upset_ you?"

"_Maker_," Anders looked around her to make certain their audience had moved on. He came up so he could be one step below her, his hands finding her hips. Just his touch was reassuring, waves of warmth moving upward to ease the tension settled in her back and shoulders. "I'm not upset, Brand. I'm _afraid_. For you, for _Bryce_. But _mostly_ for you. I honestly don't know how many more times I can see you almost killed in front of me, or hold you and know that if I wasn't _incredibly powerful_, you'd be _dead_. What's happening now is terrible, and I have a feeling it's only going to get worse. I need to know that _you_ realize that. You're not indestructible, and I'm not always going to be there when you need me. If something happens to you because you've done something rash, or stubborn, or _insane_, I'm going to be so pissed off that I might summon a Fade spirit to animate you just so I can sit in front of you and _cry_ and make _your eyes_ watch me."

"Will you take Bryce?" She was trying very hard to not weep, or feel vaguely offended at his assumption that she wasn't taking this seriously. But Anders knew her better than anyone, he'd seen how dangerous she could be when she _was_ taking things seriously. He probably had no idea what to hope for in this situation and she found more solace in the fact that he clung to her despite the endless amounts of _effort_ she required, if only as a friend, than she did in any words he could have said. "Once you've reanimated me and had your revenge cry, will you take care of him?"

One hand found her cheek; she pressed against his palm and if he could love her even as she heaped _this_ responsibility on him...

"Do you even have to ask?"

She really didn't.

He swept up past her, arm catching her around the shoulders, and they made their way to the room he would share with Bryce, the child still sleeping with purpose and cocooned in Anders' cloak. Brand kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose and his chin, her fingers running through his hair and it somehow seemed even longer than it had not five minutes ago, like he was on the fast track to adulthood and if she blinked too slowly she'd suddenly find him taller than her and deciding for himself how he wanted to wear his hair.

Anders was waiting for her by the door, his eyes soft as he bade her good-night with a lingering and careful kiss that pushed them both to the brink of lust before he pulled back with a weary smile.

"Sleep," his finger pressed against her shoulder and a rush of _drowsy_ added weight to her eyelids and ran down her spine. "Because I know you _think_ you'll be able to on the road, but you never can. And _I_ plan on tomorrow being a little less dire than today turned out to be."

She stepped into the hallway, as cozy as every other square inch of this place, and found the door to her room. It gave easily at her touch, but the small chamber was _not _empty.

"Sigrun?" Brand's mouth twisted in confusion. "I thought you'd sleep with Fiona. Andraste's ass, don't tell me you two are still mad at each other over that stupid card game."

The dwarven woman scowled slightly, but shook her head.

"No, she didn't say why she wanted to share a room with you tonight. Maybe she thought I might try to steal my gold back," she narrowed her eyes in thought. "I still might. But, you didn't hear that, Commander."

_Commander_. Brand backed out of Sigrun's room, bidding her good night. As she wandered listlessly towards her new quarters, she idly thought how ineffectual a commander she really was.

She imagined _most_ commanders could sleep wherever they damned well pleased.

Fiona was up and waiting when she finally wobbled through the door, Anders' mild nudge of sleep catching her mind like slow fire.

"Brand, are you all right?" The older woman was in her dressing gown, her black and gray hair even more wild around a pretty face that was almost twitching with anxiety.

"All right outside of the fact that I've been usurped from two beds already? Certainly," Brand collapsed on one of the narrow singles that flanked a handsome mahogany nightstand, her body sinking into a mattress so soft it was like being hugged by a huge silk sack full of rabbit fur and fluffy white clouds. "I suppose you have a good reason for this?"

The door closed behind her, Fiona moved to the other bed, taking a precarious seat at the edge.

"I have a...few things to tell you," her dark eyes caught the lamplight and Brand saw in them a world of sorrow, regret, loneliness and _hope_. "There's something that you need to know."

Brand sat up straighter and nodded in encouragement, forcing past her personal fog of exhaustion so she could focus on what Fiona had to say.

This night, it seemed, was for confessions.


	29. Fiona and Alistair

**Note from SurelyForth:** First and foremost, there are spoilers in this chapter for the epilogue of _The Calling_. I tried to keep it vague, but it was impossible to avoid. (If you haven't read _The Calling_, I highly recommend it.)

I'd also like to say thanks! to the lovely folks in the Alistair thread on the BSN for being helpful and awesome.

Finally, _Fiona and Alistair_ is dedicated to Sandtigress. She was a wonderful sounding board while I wrote this chapter and is responsible for pretty much every happy moment contained therein.

* * *

The baby in her arms might as well have belonged to someone else, for all she _felt_.

Part of it was the exhaustion of childbirth, the exhaustion of _pregnancy_ as it culminated in almost two days of agony that knotted her muscles before settling in for the duration. Part of it was confusion, as the lyrium she'd taken to help her heal herself played off of hormones and rendered her thoughts thick and unwieldy.

But most of it was the knowing how much more painful it would be if she got attached.

It helped, in a horrible way, that he looked nothing like her. Nestled in the crook of her arm, red and wrinkled, he was every inch his father's son- from the tiny golden strands that clung to his bulbous head to the way his lips were already curved into a sardonic little smirk, as though there was a quip right there, just waiting for the voice to give it life.

That's when she started thinking about Maric, but not Maric. Rather, it was his son, but not Cailan. It was _this_ child, grown and easy, a handsome human between his father and brother, looking down at _her_, so small, pale and _elven._

His own mother, and she'd be able to stand right in front of him, to look him in the eyes, and he would think her no more to him than any other stranger.

"Take him away," her voice rasped; she was dangerously dehydrated. The attending healer, a brawny older mage named Lochrie, took the infant and returned with a skin of cool water. Fiona accepted the offering gratefully, and then moved to stare at the ancient stone wall at her bedside, the topography of rock a focal point until sleep caught completely and pulled her under.

It was Duncan's voice she heard when her eyes opened some time later, a sound that had become happily familiar these past several months. She knew he would be in the chair at the foot of her bed, and she assumed he'd be holding the child, cooing as he was.

"Baby, baby, baby!" She lifted her head just enough to confirm her suspicions, the sight of her friend the reformed street rat pulling faces at something that probably couldn't even see him was enough to take the edge off the vast ache of sadness. "You're a baby! Aren't you? Aren't you?"

"I hope you don't expect a response. Babies are notoriously taciturn," she was able to pull herself up into something resembling a seated position. He raised his eyes and smiled at her, his teeth flashing white against his tan skin, made darker by the beginnings of a beard that already shaded the lower half of his face in ebony.

"Don't you listen to your mother," Duncan's face stretched into an expression of exaggerated sympathy. "I bet _she_ was smarting off to the midwife straight out of the womb."

_Mother_. Whatever amusement she could glean from the young man's excessively mirthful response to the baby died at that word.

Actually, it had flared for a moment towards hope and _then_ died a death all the more painful for that brief upswing.

"We'll be leaving as soon as I can walk," Fiona tugged at the covers, her fingers clenched weakly into the rough fabric. Weisshaupt did not have the most luxurious of facilities, and there were seldom enough births here that they didn't think to improve the amenities. "We both have stations to assume."

Duncan's grin faded and he settled the baby onto his knees, his strong hands still careful.

"I was hoping you'd change your mind," he looked older when he said this, his black eyes grave despite the glint of sympathy at their core. "My offer still stands."

"Your offer," this was said with derision, although it had meant much to her when he'd pulled a chair up beside her preferred desk in the Weisshaupt library and laid out a sweet but ultimately unfeasible plan for a future where she could keep her baby and _he_ would support and protect them. "It was kind of you, Duncan, but I don't have to remind you that we'll be lucky to not kill each other on the trip to Ferelden, never mind what would happen if we tried to have a life together."

He blushed. "We wouldn't have to be _together_...you know that I...it's not _like_ that..."

"I know it's not, Duncan." She forced a grim smile, despite how much she meant the words that followed: "I would be lucky were it able to be like that."

* * *

They kept her for a month after the baby was born, fascinated by the way the darkspawn corruption that had gotten so advanced from their time in the Deep Roads had faded during her pregnancy and now appeared to be gone completely. Even the First Warden came by the infirmary to stare at her, his pale grey eyes never meeting hers, interested as he was only in her skin.

"Do you know what might have caused it?" She dared to question the First, and he responded with a wave of his hand.

"We'll study more when you get back, probably your whole life," he spoke flatly, as if she wasn't losing everything already. What was it to _him_ that she become a test subject for the Wardens? It would be just another sacrifice. "Too much going on to know for certain, though. Might be worth trying some techniques to advance corruption and see..."

He trailed off when he realized that Fiona was staring at him with eyes gone wide and horrified at the thing he idly suggested, as if it wasn't his own men and women he'd be willing to sacrifice.

After that, there were false starts and recalls aplenty, three times she'd been at the stables with her pack secured on her mount when a messenger came running, breathless and requesting she return to the infirmary, or to the Second's office. When she and Duncan were finally _officially_ allowed to take their leave, the baby in a wool sling that held him snug against her chest, she was ecstatic. Of course, she'd have to come back. It was an inevitability that stung so fiercely she'd packed only the barest essentials, leaving behind the few possessions she'd mind losing. Having those things waiting for her when she returned might make returning less horrible.

It would also make her less likely to stay away forever.

They would travel east to Val Dorma, the closest access point to the Imperial Highway which they were following southwards towards Cumberland. They wouldn't reach Ferelden for at least a month and Fiona secretly dreaded what it would be like with the baby at her heart all that time, knowing every pulse beat drew her closer to life without him.

"I still can't believe you haven't named him," this was the fifth day of their journey. They'd stopped to relieve themselves and Duncan had him out of his swaddling clothes, watching his tiny limbs flail with as much delight as the baby took in flailing them.

Fiona had removed the sling from her shoulders and weighed it in her hands. It wasn't much, just a length of fabric, but it represented everything she couldn't bear to think about. _Naming_ was one of those things.

"I thought I would let Maric name him," she began futzing with her robes, shabby blue linen that still fit slightly too tight across her midsection. "It seems like...the least I could do. Considering."

Duncan frowned, his eyes wandering to the sling hanging loosely in her grip.

"Do you want me to take him for a while? It can't be comforta..."

The fabric was over his head before he even had a chance to finish his offer, the baby wrapped and settled within a few minutes. For a long moment, they both stared down at him, his expression one of mild consternation at having his freedom of movement taken away.

"I'm going to name him," Duncan's tone rang defiant and Fiona was reminded of the rebellious boy he'd been when first conscripted.

"You can't just _name_ someone else's child," she searched for a reason why _that_ would apply in _this_ situation. "Besides, there's probably protocol for naming the son of a king, even if he is an elf-blooded bastard."

They both flinched away from the harshness of her words, Fiona going pale as she realized how callous she must seem.

"That's not...that's _not_ what I think of him," she withdrew from Duncan and the baby to trip towards her horse, pausing to gather herself before mounting. Tears were beginning to stream down her cheeks and she pressed into her cloak to catch them.

Duncan watched from his place by the side of the road, concern etched into his face. The baby let out a frustrated mewl that might have meant _let me out_ or _this bosom isn't as soft as I'd like _or even _make nonsense noises at me until I'm happy again_. Duncan looked down again, and his lips curved in affection.

"Well, then I'll just have to think of a _proper_ name to give you. Something kingly, or noble," he poked at the baby's belly. "You have no idea how ironic this is. There's exactly one noble person in all of Thedas who thinks I'm worth _anything_, and that's your father."

"Don't even think about it," Fiona's eyes were still leaking, but she managed a tremulous almost smile.

Duncan mounted his horse, somehow managing to keep the baby still against his chest. They moved at a steady canter, and the man kept putting his hand beneath the sling, as if measuring.

"Are you a...Reginald? No, _too_ regal. How about...Comus?" The baby squalled. "All right, all right. Too barbarian. Uh, Hammond? Bartleby? Jarvis?"

The baby continued to wail.

"For the love of the _Maker_, Duncan. _Bart_leby?"

Duncan's lips pushed out sheepishly, "This is harder than it looks. Names just don't fall out of the sky, you know. Even temporary ones that you're only trying to come up with so you can stop calling the baby _baby_."

He remained silent nearly an hour, until the infant set to fussing again.

"Change of tactics, here," he looked at Fiona. "Care to take Jonah off my hands?"

"No."

"Araby?"

"Not even."

"Alphonso?"

"Honestly, it's like you've never met someone with a _name_ before."

"I know..._Lloyd_!"

"That's it," she came to a stop. "I am taking him away from you before you accidentally doom him by suggestion alone."

"Aw, Lloyd seems _dignified_," he gazed down."_Dignified_ is good. Don't you think so, Alistair?"

Fiona nudged her horse forward and continued past Duncan's mount.

"Alistair?" The baby gurgled and pressed his cheek against Duncan. It was about the hundreth time since he'd taken him, but this time was symbolic, if only because Fiona offered a non-committal shrug rather than a glare or an outright _no_. "Well, I guess that's your name then. For at least the next month or so, anyway."

Alistair blew a small spit bubble that popped back onto him, causing his eyes to widen with surprise.

"Alistair might have your eyes, Fiona," Duncan used the edge of the sling to wipe off the baby's mouth.

Fiona could not respond, the combination of _Alistair_ and _your eyes_ already too much for her to contemplate at once.

* * *

Ferelden was the same as when they'd left it, only she was no longer flushed with the glow of a sweet if tragic love affair and Duncan was positively dashing with his new beard. Well, that's what every woman they met told him, even if they _did_ think he and the elven woman sitting next to him with a baby in her lap were together.

They were only one day outside of Denerim when the anxiety hit. One minute she was how she'd been since they crossed the Waking Sea- her mind carefully blank and focused on _next_. (_Next_ they would get their horses from the ship, _next_ they would spend the night at the Grey Warden compound in Jader, Fiona doing her best to keep attention away from the baby while Duncan did nothing _but_ talk about Alistair.) But now they were at the worst _next_, for _next_ they would see the palace, and _Maric_, and she'd be reminded of all that she couldn't have, or keep, or even _remember_.

Just thinking about _remembering_, before it even happened, was enough to make tears fall down her cheeks large, hot and unceasing. Then her shoulders shook under the weight of a decision she should have never had to decide.

_They said this couldn't happen. _Like it was a broken vow, a _betrayal_._ They said _this_ was impossible._

That part was, at least, _mostly_ true.

The baby kicked up at her and cheerfully blew more spit bubbles.

"That's entirely inappropriate, you know," it was probably the first thing she'd actually said _to_ him besides _shush_ or _I know, I know_. "When someone is crying, you act sympathetic, you don't…joke around."

"It got you to stop crying, didn't it?" Duncan was leaning against the doorframe, the armor he'd gotten while they were in Jader worn with unmistakable pride. "That's a skill he got from his father, I imagine. Part of the _charm_ that attracted you in the first place."

Fiona didn't much want to think about Maric's charm, but Duncan was right. It was there anyway. In the _baby_.

She drew him into her arms, holding him as a mother who could keep him. Pride swelled within her, baseless as it might be. He was beautiful and strong and a bit of a miracle, really. He might not _look_ like her, and she might never know him beyond tomorrow, but…

Duncan sat down next to her on the bed, his arm awkward around her narrow shoulders on account of the bulky armor.

"It's ok to love him," he pressed his cheek to the top of her head. "You carried him, gave birth to him, and care enough about him to sacrifice your own happiness so he can have a better life. You'll _always_ be his mother, even a thousand miles away. Nobody can take that away from you but _you_."

She nodded, willing numbness to overtake her but failing. The baby tilted his chin up ever so slightly and met her teary gaze, his eyes far darker than his father's.

"Alistair isn't a terrible name," one hand shot up to wipe at her cheeks.

"Right?" Duncan pulled away to stand, leaving to allow her time to spend alone with her son. "Are you still going to let Maric name him?"

Fiona ran her finger along the babe's brow line; he let out a contented sigh and she smiled wistfully in response.

"Yes," she held the baby tighter; she could feel his warmth seeping through the layers of fabric between them. "But if he's half as bad at it as you, then I'll be forced to intervene."

But Duncan was gone. It was just her and the baby...mother and son.

_Fiona and Alistair. _

* * *

She never actually believed that she'd convince Maric to go along with it. (She also had never thought herself capable of feeling simultaneously heartbroken and hopeful, disappointed yet relieved.)

He was seeing them off now, before day could catch the elf and her _more_ respectable but _occasionally_ still sticky-fingered friend roaming the halls of the palace. Before they had parted, but after one brief kiss, Maric had thought to ask it.

"What's his _name_?"

Fiona, her need to leave the only thing keeping her from staying _forever_, turned back in surprise.

"I thought you could name him," she touched the baby's brow, remembering how _Alistair_ had clicked so perfectly for her the day before. Still, she _was_ leaving and Maric would only have this brief time with their son to leave a lasting mark _besides his face_.

"You want _me_ to…?" Maric stared at the child as though it might explode if he didn't come up with something right away. "_I _can't do this."

"I told you it was hard," Duncan looked entirely too vindicated.

"No family names or anything?" Fiona felt a prick of remorse that her gesture was causing Maric such visible consternation.

"Well, maybe before you _asked_," Maric bounced the infant in his arms a few times, a tiny motion similar to how Duncan had seemed to weigh him before. "My grandfather's name was Brandel? Maybe…ooh, no. One of our teryn's just called his daughter that."

"He named his daughter _Brandel_?" Duncan was somewhere between amused and disgusted.

"Well, Brandelyn," Maric glanced up, his lips twisting into a conspiratorial grin. "I know, I know. It's the worst name. Why do you think I remembered it?"

For several moments they were all quiet while they stared at the child between them as he slept on, ignorant of the seismic shift his life was undergoing. Fiona would not be able to do this much longer, to see Maric holding their son, to see him smiling and _good_.

"Duncan has been calling him Alistair," in that second she'd decided the child's existence was going to change enough once he was sent away to be raised as a lie. "I rather like it."

Maric placed one large hand to the baby's chest and offered his grin to Fiona.

"Why didn't you just tell me that in the first place?"

_Why didn't I just tell you _everything_ in the first place?_

"I wanted you to have a say," she swallowed hard on the ache in her throat. "On this, at least."

Leaning forward, she brushed her fingers along Alistair's impossibly soft cheek, drawn to his sweet face like a honeybee to a bloom. _If you don't go now, you'll never be able to_. With a spike of pure will, she spun around to leave.

From behind, Maric called her name but she soldiered on, every overemphatic heel strike on the stone floor jarring pain up her legs in an attempt to take attention away from the black spill of anguish that spread beneath her breast.

As if anything could distract her from _that_.

* * *

Time was the enemy.

Her original focus had been to just survive a day at a time. That first day was too _difficult_. Even Duncan was gone, staying with Maric until the baby was safely transferred to Maric's brother-in-law. She rode back to Jader with Riordan, a perfectly nice Warden who wasn't nearly as sympathetic or as companionable as Duncan.

If she thought about _at the end of the day_, her breath would catch and the impossibility of lasting that long, a day suddenly seeming like infinity, would overwhelm her. So it became hour to hour, then minute to minute and, finally, heartbeat to heartbeat.

She made it to Jader in one piece and mind intact, leaving Orlais to sail over the Waking Sea to Cumberland and eventually back to Weisshaupt.

_Weisshaupt._ Where everything was exactly the same as she'd left it: desolate and cold and lonely.

There was nothing for Fiona here, except being a Warden.

So, heartbeat by heartbeat, she studied records and put together a narrative on the Architect about the things he told them and what he did to Warden-Commander Genevieve and Genevieve's brother. It was an exercise in unraveling madness and discovering kernels of rational thought, but rational thought so completely devoid of humanity it doubled back to madness. It wasn't healthy, but she lost herself in research until she could withstand the thought of _at the end of the day_ without pausing to sob over how she'd last the hour.

Duncan sent letters and sometimes she even read them. Usually, though, she opened the envelope and tucked the correspondences into the back of her journal. The plan was to read one every time she stumbled over it, but she'd more often than not just set them aside, using them as place markers or extra space to scratch notes.

It wasn't that she didn't want to know, she just couldn't bear the thought of bad news. What if he was being mistreated? What if he was unhappy? What if he was _unloved_?

A year had passed when the First called her into his office to tell her about another Warden who was expecting. He wanted Fiona to monitor the entire pregnancy, to keep track of every detail and change. She balked at this responsibility, this knife to her heart.

But he was the First, and helping deliver healthy babies was, he reminded her, better than being back in the Orlesian Circle of Magi.

So she helped the poor woman, a fellow elf by the name of Lariel who was as disconnected from the new life pressing beneath her skin as Fiona had been. When the time came for the babe to be born, Fiona stood away from the bed and took notes on everything from how long the labor took, to how alert Lariel was at any given point in the birthing process, to how times the young woman begged Andraste to _fucking end this already_.

(It was thirty-seven times.)

After Lariel, it was Moren. After Moren, Bianca. Then Hilde and Patrice and Rin, and they all had the same dead eyes by the end of it, even those who were leaving the order to start their new family.

They'd never have a normal life with their children, their Callings would always hang over their heads like an invisible executioner's blade.

Eventually, she stopped watching and started taking an active role in the deliveries. It helped to keep her mind off the hopelessness of it all, and it buried the sting of familiarity and the reminder of her own painful miracle hundreds of miles away and never knowing he had a mother who thought of him minute to minute most days, but heartbeat to heartbeat when confronted with others who were going through it, too.

Ten years down, and Duncan arrived far from the _mostly_ man but still a little bit boy she'd left behind. He was full-fledged, now. The shadow of taint was visible in his eyes which were almost always grave with _duty_ and _consequence_. He kept his inky black hair long and skinned back from an intense face and his formerly dashing beard was now an intimidating wall between him and others who might distract him from his path.

The news he bore was unpleasant, to put it mildly.

It had never occurred to her that they might send him away _again_, this time to the Chantry.

"The idea is for him to become a templar," Duncan's face wore veneer of compassion, his voice even quivering with the injustice of the words he spoke. "He'll get an excellent education, and it will make him completely incapable of claiming the throne."

"Because he'll be addicted to _lyrium_," Fiona could barely choke this out, her rage a solid thing in her throat. "How could...how could Maric let this happen? A _templar_ of all things?"

There were no easy answers, and Fiona had to let the anger die largely unacknowledged. Maric was _there_, she wasn't. Maric had his kingdom to worry about, she had nothing but a small room with a narrow bed and piles and piles of journals about talking darkspawn and tainted women and the children they found and lost beneath her distant gaze that hid unfathomable amounts of _sympathy_.

Duncan left softer than he'd arrived, her own harsh presence somehow wearing at his sharp edges.

Five years later, Maric…

It started with a letter bearing the seal of the King of Ferelden stating his intentions to visit Weisshaupt and tour the fortress. But mostly, it said, he wanted to see _her_.

And even though she bore the anger of a million heartbeats spent thinking about _her_ son the _templar_, she found herself excited and hopeful. Maric would at least bring vibrancy to this lifeless place, where she believed happiness came to die.

One night she awoke to him at the foot of her narrow bed, and there were no words, only him sliding in beside her, their awkward limbs as they pulled away nightclothes and velvet-lined breeches and the storm that started as he entered her for one last night _together_.

It lashed at the window high above her bed, lightning flashing in and thunder growing simultaneously louder yet more _distant_. The storm lasted for hours, and so did they, her thighs slipping from his waist as sweat ran in rivulets over their skin to pool in and spill from the hollows of their intertwined bodies. They were desperately pouring their loneliness out and into each other as the rain eroded the very walls around them until it was just Fiona and Maric.

Then he was _gone_, but the walls were surrounding her again and…

She was not surprised at the letter that arrived from King Cailan of Ferelden. The new monarch wished to, regretfully, inform the First Warden of his father's untimely death at sea whilst en route to Weisshaupt Fortress.

No, not surprised at all, but back to heartbeat to heartbeat as a matter of survival.

* * *

Denerim had seen better days.

She could see scars from the Blight everywhere around her, towers that reached just above the palace walls before cascading back in a pile of rubble, scorched patches of earth and stone, ordered clusters of reclaimed masonry that awaited the funds and time to reassemble it. Even the Market District, which she heard bore a great deal of damage in the battle, was rebuilt far beyond the palace exterior. There must have been a decision made to restore the more active parts of the city first. Fiona was starting to understand why Queen Anora seemed so cranky, living as she did in a prettied up ruin while the rest of her kingdom underwent massive reconstruction.

Or maybe the Queen was always this way, Fiona hadn't even been formally introduced but merely waved into the audience chamber. There, a coolly beautiful woman was having a heated discussion with a brawny man whose handsome face was partially obscured by hair grown shaggy into eyes that glinted with subdued mirth.

"At the very least, you could ask her about the situation with Bann Teagan," the queen was obviously on friendly-ish terms with this man, her annoyed tone not moderated for his benefit. "There are some concerns that the Guerrins are attempting to hold as much as possible."

The man sighed and moved his shoulders back in a small stretch.

"I think this is more a marital issue than a political one, Anora," he lowered his voice, mindful of the company. "He would gladly have her with him. Besides, no worries about the Couslands trying to take over the country? Or have they all forgotten so soon?"

He was smiling now, but the queen had turned her focus to Fiona, sapphire eyes hard as she motioned her forward.

"I assume that you are the Senior Warden from Weisshaupt?" There was a perfunctory amount of respect in the queen's address, far too little considering that the Wardens had saved her father _and _her country.

"Yes, Your Majesty. I have been sent personally with documents from the First Warden himself," Fiona presented three packets of information to the queen, all of which bore the Grey Warden seal. One was addressed to Queen Anora, one to the Grand Cleric of Ferelden and the third to the Knight-Commander.

She held a fourth beneath her cloak, addressed as it was to Warden-Commander Brand Cousland.

Anora tore her letter open with little patience, reading the contents and responding with a sigh that seemed to relieve more than a small amount of pent up frustration.

"Thank the Maker," she handed the document to the man beside her. "Apparently the Right of Conscription _is_ as ironclad as we were hoping. I can't imagine Her Reverence will be pleased by this decision, but it saves me any more headaches. Unless, of course, your sister plans on harboring every apostate that wanders into her arling?"

The man rolled his eyes skyward.

"Weren't you the one who encouraged her to conscript the mage?"

"That was before I realized they'd go on a templar killing spree together!" The queen shook the letters in his face as if he'd forgotten about their existence. "Although they were absolved of _that _months ago, I still can't think it a mistake."

"A mistake, maybe. But the moment you allow one conscription to be overturned, you open the door for others," the man stepped down from the dais where the queen held court, his eyes on Fiona. "And were I someone who benefitted from the same directive, I'd probably want to avoid setting any dangerous precedents, Your Highness."

He smirked. The queen glared at the back of his head but held her tongue in what must have been a prodigious show of restraint.

"Fiona, was it?" He offered a polite bow and his elbow, "I am Fergus Cousland, teryn of Highever and your escort to Vigil's Keep." His voice lowered to a bare whisper, "How furious is she?"

Fiona didn't have to check twice.

"Extremely."

His smirk turned into a full-blown grin as she turned to join him out of the audience chamber.

If Fiona wasn't predisposed to despise his sister on principal, she might have looked forward to meeting another one of these Couslands.

* * *

An emergency on the road to Amaranthine meant that Fiona arrived at Vigil's Keep escorted only by a slack-jawed knight that she would have been more than happy to release from his duty before they even got on their.

The Vigil was almost grotesquely large and completely unwieldy. It was also in even worse shape than Denerim, bearing as it did the marks of a far more recent darkspawn raid. It had been nearly two months since the large scale attacks on Amaranthine yet, if the wind blew right, she could catch the smell of them still lingering in the air.

She was greeted in the yard by a man who might have been handsome were he not ravaged by exhaustion. His eyes and hair were matching shades of silvery-grey and he had an air of infinite patience affirmed by the way he stepped carefully over the debris that remained scattered about the yard and politely acknowledged crude shouts from the army of dwarven masons who were working to repair the damaged gatehouse.

"I was told we had a visitor," his voice was rough but warm. "I am Varel, the Seneschal of Vigil's Keep. I apologize for the..."

He trailed off. _Mess_ couldn't even begin to describe the chaos in the yard.

"Fiona, Senior Warden from Weisshaupt Fortress," she held up the envelope she was to hand-deliver to Warden-Commander Brand Cousland.

Varel's eyes caught the name and seal and he let out a small sigh.

"I believe the Commander has been in the infirmary most of this morning," weariness washed over his face and she was almost afraid he might collapse on the spot. "I can have one of my men..." he looked around the suddenly empty yard. "I will be happy to escort you, Ser Mage."

Brand was not what Fiona had expected.

Fiona had expected young, and Brand _was_ young and seemed younger as she sprawled across one of the beds in the infirmary, her eyes fixed on the ceiling and her coltish limbs going in every direction.

She'd been less than receptive to Fiona's diagnosis. At first. Every Warden Fiona had ever given the news was floored by it. Then they would inevitably start running, even if it was just a _mental_ break.

Fiona assumed no less from Brand, but Brand gathered herself, wide green eyes narrowed down in acknowledgement that _this is how it is_ and _now I need to figure out how it's going to be handled_.

"What can I do?"

There was a pause and so many things were on the tip of Fiona's tongue, but she bit them back to show some modicum of respect to a woman who she felt deserved none at all. Still, it didn't hurt to get on good terms with one's superior officer.

Besides, Fiona was even able to give this one some good news, for a change. The First was determined for this endeavor in Ferelden to be successful, and _he_ needed the Hero of Ferelden more than _she_ needed the Grey Wardens.

It was interesting to note how the commander balked at that title, though. _Hero_...as if it were a noose around her neck and not the world's way of honoring her.

Her reason for the discomfort was what Fiona expected the least.

_Maker, she knows exactly what she did. _That realization did nothing to ease the bitterness in Fiona's heart, or sooth the wound that had been opened when word of what was transpiring in Ferelden made its way to Weisshaupt. Her son had been recruited and discarded by then, and _this one_ was being heralded for _their_ accomplishments.

And it was the last thing Brand wanted.

Fiona kept herself to the shadows over the next several months, acclimating herself to these new surroundings that were hectic and overwhelming but unmistakably _alive_.

At the center of it all, yet still strangely and sadly solitary, was Brand, her hard-edged warrior's physique softening as her stomach expanded and she grew more and more likely to be alone somewhere quiet, humming to herself and speaking in conversational tones to her midsection.

"Does it ever respond?" Fiona remembered her own pregnancy, and how she ignored every kick and stretch after the first one almost broke her resolve.

"Sometimes," Brand smiled up from her place on the floor in the solarium where she was looking through a stack of anatomical portraits. "Sometimes he'll sort of," her long fingers splayed out and wiggled for a few moments. "Is he trying to tickle me? I don't know. It's very _weird_."

"He?" Fiona knew of women in the alienage who swore that there were all sorts of tricks to tell a baby's gender before the birth, but she'd never had any luck with any of them.

The other woman shrugged and struggled to her feet.

"I just thought about it one day and...it's a boy," she pushed fallen strands of hair away from her face and frowned. "I've been calling him Bryce all this time. That might be awkward if I'm wrong..."

"You've _named_ him already?" Fiona remembered weeks that went by with her baby _baby_. _How different things would have been had I her hope. _

"It's my father's name. _Was_," her eyes darkened at the correction. "And now it will be my son's."

She was so confident of this, but her expression remained shadowed as her fingers trailed delicately across her stomach, her voice catching as she murmured to herself:

"I only hope I don't screw _this_ up, too."

Fiona felt a pang of genuine sympathy, and an urge to comfort this virtual stranger in her moment of self-loathing.

"I had a..." and Fiona almost said _son_, but a part of her was terrified that Brand might puzzle it out somehow. She had known Alistair and, if Alistair had been told any truth about his parentage, he might have told her. "I had a daughter. Years and years ago."

Brand looked up, hands hastily pushing aside gathering tears and she nodded in encouragement.

She was always encouraging.

"That's it," Fiona tried to smile but didn't do the best job of it. "I...stayed with the Wardens, obviously, and she was raised by friends of her father."

"How old is she?" Brand took a seat on a low sofa. "Have you thought about contacting her?"

But this question killed Fiona's enthusiasm for the subject. After Duncan's letter announcing Alistair's conscription, she had hoped to maybe _meet_ her son. Now she had no idea where he was again_ or what_.

At least she knew that she was no longer alone in being touched by his absence.

* * *

Fiona stopped talking, unable to go much further because Brand knew everything that had happened since.

But Brand was staring at Fiona because that's all Brand could really _do_.

Fiona allowed the staring to continue.

It took a few minutes for other parts of her to start functioning again- her brain, especially, was just going _everywhere_- but Brand was finally able to stammer this out:

"When you started talking, I thought you were going to tell me you were attracted to Alistair, and I was going to say 'What about Varel? And Alistair is young enough to be your son!' But no, he's actually just..._your son_. _Maker_. I am going to shut up now."

But she couldn't shut up because _this_ was an absolute _tragedy_ and Brand had just _dealt_ with tragedy of an Alistair sort. Emotions were churning but she forced them down as her thoughts took another spin around her head to produce more nonsense.

"I mean, Wynne used to flirt with him, so maybe it could be an elder mage thing? Not that you're old or anything," _stoptalking stoptalking stoptalking_. "And Morrigan used to, you know, care what he thought about her _nose_ so…templar fetish? Andraste's ass, Anders better not get it into his head to…"

_Or maybe _that_ wouldn't be so bad._

Now it was Fiona's turn to stare, her mouth slightly agape and her eyes deeply, deeply worried and _this is true, this is happening, this is…_

"How _could_ you…how _did_ you..._How_?" And Brand had just been told _how_, but there was more to it than that. She thought of Bryce. Even when he was inside her futzing around all those months it had been _company_, it had been the two of them together rather than just _her_ alone. They belonged more to each other than they would to anyone else in the world. Even if she had to give him up he would be _hers_ and there was no way that _twenty-five years_ could pass without him. "How did you stay away? Wasn't there _anything_ else that could have been done?"

Fiona's eyes filled with tears as she focused on the wall behind Brand, unable to respond.

"You told me why before, and I understand the odds but…_Fiona_," Brand's voice broke. "Fiona, he _needed_ you. If I would have known, I would have told you that. Some children can live the way he did and turn out fine but Alistair needed to belong to someone more than anyone I have _ever _met."

Fiona appeared to shrink, shame darkening her face as it crumpled under Brand's recrimination and a flash of sympathy urged Brand to close the space between them. Her arms went around Fiona, her chin pressed to her head. Shushing sounds may have been made, but mostly it was just support for what she'd done. How impossible it would be to admit something like _that_.

_Fiona is Alistair's _mother_. All this time I had this part of him _here_ and never knew it._

Brand was then struck by another realization, one that made her snort.

"Do you know about Goldanna?"

Fiona's head shook beneath Brand's chin.

"She was the daughter of the serving girl in Redcliffe, the woman they told Alistair was his mother. He tracked Goldanna down when he was a Warden and we went to visit her right before the Landsmeet."

"What happened?" Fiona's voice was raw from talking and emotion. "Did she even know?"

"She'd been told about the baby, yes, and that it was the king's," Brand's lips turned down. Despite the vindication of knowing Alistair wasn't related to that horrible woman, the story would be sad for Fiona to hear. Now that she was actually _remembering_, it was hard for Brand to keep thinking about it. She concluded lamely, "She was horrible, and it's a relief to know they aren't related."

Brand pulled away from Fiona and the mage wiped at her cheeks, embarrassment clear on her face. There were so many things Brand wanted to ask her- about Maric, about Duncan as a young man, about _how_, but her brain kept circling back to one thing.

"You knew what I did to him," this was not a question. "Why don't you hate me?"

"I did," it came out so effortlessly that Brand knew it to be true. "I hated you on sight and for months. But from our first conversation you made it clear you were haunted by what had happened, and it wasn't artifice. I knew from the beginning that you cared enough to let the loss of him ruin your life. And I also knew that he was partially at fault."

Brand made a derisive noise. "How do you figure that?"

"He didn't have to leave," Fiona shook her head. "He may have been heart-broken and felt betrayed, but it was ultimately his decision to leave the Wardens and Ferelden." She put her hand up before Brand could interrupt. "You knew that he depended on you, but he shouldn't have put so much pressure on you alone. And it's my fault for him being that way. If I would have intervened when he was sent to the Chantry, or at least let him know, or let his father tell him…"

"Did Maric _want_ him to know?" Brand had never thought much of former king after hearing about Alistair's childhood. "Wouldn't he be a threat to _Cailan_ or some such nonsense."

Fiona shrugged.

"I really don't know how those things work but…yes. Maric wanted to do anything _but_ what we did. I couldn't do it though, I would always be afraid I was dooming Alistair with my elven blood and my magic," tears caught in her eyelashes, suspended and glittering like cut glass. "I used to imagine what it would be like to come back, to be his mother. And all I could ever think about was going to the market and the way everyone would assume I was his elven nan, or his father's whore. I would have no status and who would believe we were related, anyway? Would you?"

Brand looked at her friend's dark eyes and they _had_ been familiar, even from the beginning, but there was nothing else of Alistair there.

"I was afraid he wouldn't believe me. That he would be expecting a human mother, and he'd call me a liar, or _worse_..." she stared at her hands, fisted in her lap. "And once he was an adult...that he'd be bitter, or dismissive."

"He wouldn't have, Fiona. He was desperate for family, it's all he ever wanted," Brand gently touched Fiona's knee. "And with Eamon and Teagan dead, he doesn't have _anyone_. I think...I think you should tell him."

"No," the word was emphatic, loud and clear. Brand jerked, taken aback at the way Fiona's face had gone hard. "I...can't tell him. Not now."

"Oh, sod it all, Fiona. You've been waiting all this time and he's in the _next room_. And, in case you didn't notice, we're being chased by assassins. I hate to say it, but anyone of us could go at any second," Fiona's jaw twitched. "You might not get another chance."

"I actually...I want _you _to tell him," she pushed her hand through her hair. "It might soften the blow."

Brand blinked, "The _blow_? Since when is 'Hey, you do have a mother. And she's alive and pretty awesome!' a blow? It might be a _shock_, but..."

Fiona's eyes said everything. Her heart wouldn't let her even _risk _it.

"Maker help me, _all right_. But I promised Anders I would get some sleep tonight...and it is _very_ late."

She nodded, relief flooding her face as her posture visibly relaxed.

"Take your time. I'd rather it be right than rushed," she stood and Brand stood with her, returning to her own bed and pulling back the coverlet.

"When did you know?"

"The day the stairs fell, and Anders got stabbed. You called him Alistair and it clicked," she looked wistful. "I spent all night and all of the next day _thinking_. I was always afraid that we would be introduced and he'd never believe I was his mother. Then we actually _did_ meet and I didn't want to acknowledge him as my son. Even when Varel told me what he had done for Anders...that bitter man who'd hurt you was so far from the goofy little babe I left with Maric."

Brand's eyes stung with tears she was afraid to shed.

"_I_ took that from him, Fiona," Brand drew a ragged breath. "I'm sorry for making it so you had to wait even longer to be with your son, and I'm sorry that I helped turn him into a bitter man. You need to know that he's good, beneath it all. I see it more and more every day."

"I figured as much. Brand Cousland doesn't risk her life for just _anyone_."

"I _do_, actually," she settled back against the impossibly soft pillows and let out a blissful noise. "Did Maric and Duncan really make fun of my name?"

Fiona, who was wrapped in her own covers, chuckled.

"They did," she looked at Brand and tried to suppress a mocking laugh. "It really _is _the worst name."

"I _know_. Alistair isn't, though. Duncan did a good job there."

"Yes, he actually managed to get quite a lot of things right."

_That_ was Fiona's way of saying _thank you_, _I accept your apology_, and _thank you, again_.

It was exactly what Brand had expected, despite it ending a conversation that had been the furthest _thing _from expectable.


	30. More than Anything

**Note from SF:** Thanks again to Sandtigress for her help with fine-tuning my awkwardness.

And, to everyone who is reading and reviewing: Your continued support means everything. Thank you!

* * *

Eamon was a man who seldom got angry, but he did _disappointment_ quite well.

Alistair could remember those times when his guardian would stand above him, Alistair probably covered in mud, or holding broken fragments of something valuable, or with pockets full of cheese stolen from the kitchen, and the aura of _How could you, after everything I've given you?_ was a palpable thing.

Inevitably, Alistair would spend the evenings after those moments down by the docks of Lake Calenhad, pouting and wondering childish things:

_Why am I so _bad_? _

_Would I be so bad if I weren't a _bastard_? _

_Would Eamon be as disappointed if I were _his_ son? _

_Would my real father be as _disappointed_ as Eamon?_

Then he'd walk out into the water, the cold as it swirled into his scuffed leather boots a bracing distraction from those thoughts, things he could never bring himself to give a voice. He'd push himself out past his knees, to his thighs and then his waist. Sometimes the moon would be overhead, turning the surface of the lake into a shimmering thing that seemed almost like a dream. He imagined what would happen if he sank his head below- different scenarios that all involved him going someplace where he was loved and _not_ alone on nights like these.

He was, of course, fully aware that he'd only drown. Then someone would have to delay their work day to fish out his body and everyone would be annoyed with him for causing such inconveniences...

Knowing this, he inevitably waded to shore and trudged back up to the stables rather than bother anyone with his death.

The ocean, though, was a different beast. If he put his head below here, the frigid water already sucking at his thighs, he'd be swept out to sea and deposited someplace far, far away. Gone and no one would have to deal with his body. They could just all wake up, take notice of his empty bed, and move on with their lives as if he'd never come back to Ferelden, as if he'd died a nobody in a bed across the sea, his _secrets_ safe within him.

Through a haze of whiskey drunk, it was all making a terrible amount of sense. Stars were littered across the water and he thought perhaps that he could catch a few to offer up to whoever might be waiting on the other side. He had no idea how the afterlife worked, whether you could just walk in and do what you had to do or if there was a fee to enter and stay the eternity.

Suddenly, a lump formed in his throat and he fought down a small surge of panic. The stars dimmed a bit and _eternity is a long, long time and I am surrounded by dark water and Maker only knows what is lurking nearby_.

His soaked wool pants and inebriated state made it hard to run back to the shore, but he managed even with the earth tilting beneath his feet and every point of light streaking through his vision.

The problem was that the shore had nothing for him_. Nothing but a boat_. It was a fisherman's vessel, small, wooden and tied to the dock where it bobbed invitingly on the gently breaking waves. A strong odor of fish wafted up to Alistair, but he was already stepping in to curl up on the baseboards, his head pressed against a wooden bucket and his knees already sore from the tight space.

He didn't mind the stench _or_ discomfort as the waves rocked him beneath a sky that stretched above, points of starlight, like the pricks of pain that needled his heart, turned indistinct by the filter of drink and tears.

* * *

Another bed, another awakening with no reference to time at all.

Brand's sleep had been fitful at best, despite her exhaustion. Her dreams were more tiring than anything she'd done all day- a never ending replay of three conversations that painted pictures of desperation and personal anxieties. A subconscious effort was being made to filter and fit all of the new information where it needed to go, but there was just way too much to process in one night and now her thoughts were sluggish and her mind overfull.

She also missed Bryce. Any other day that had went as badly as yesterday had would have seen her spending an evening reading to him, or storytelling, or even just wrapping her arms around him so he could fall asleep feeling loved and protected. And Fiona's admission had certainly not helped to make her miss him less.

Unable to drift off again, Brand found her pack in the dark and hastily pulled on clean clothes before creeping down to Anders' room. From somewhere beyond the staircase, she could hear the sounds of furniture being moved. Breakfast smells wafted up and rendered her momentarily paralyzed with hunger.

Apparently, she'd slept longer than she realized.

Anders' door was unlocked and she let herself in to see him dressed and sprawled on the bed, Bryce leaping over outstretched limbs that would occasionally try to catch him. It was a game they played at home, but usually on the floor or on _her_ bed which was about three times as big as _this_ one. Knowing that she was about ready to slip into _mother_ _mode_, Anders rolled to his side and Bryce tucked in behind him, only his eyes and tousled hair visible above the mage's hip.

"So I don't have to tell you this is a bad idea?" She perched herself on the edge of the bed.

"Probably not," Bryce looked momentarily contrite. "I could fall and break my head."

"This is true. Or you could step on something that Anders would prefer you not step on."

They both went a little pale at this, even though Bryce had no _idea_ what she meant.

"Like Pounce?" He sat up, frowning. "But Anders can use _magic_ and me or Pounce will be better."

"And what if Anders isn't there when you fall off the bed?"

This was fairly unfathomable for her son. Anders was _always_ there.

"I'm _always_ there," he paused and ran his hand up her thigh. "Except for when the two of you almost got...you know. _Poisoned_."

"_I_ know," Bryce clamored over Anders as inelegantly as anything she'd ever seen and came to rest in her lap, his back against her stomach and his head reclined against her chest. "I won't do it if Anders isn't there."

"I must say, Brand, that's fairly unassailable logic for a four year-old," Anders moved to sit next to her, his arm going around her shoulders even as she glared at him with enough intensity to burn his clothes right off_. Not that _he_ would mind_.

"What's _unassailable_?" Bryce's hands were folding and unfolding in his lap.

"_Unassailable_ is when she can't argue with _you_, but she can decide that _I_ won't be getting so much as a hug for the next several days," Anders offered her a hopeful smirk, even in the face of her continued glare.

Bryce flopped over so that he was stretched across both of their laps, concern etched between his eyes.

"No hugs?"

Brand leaned forward and touched his partially exposed stomach, "Always hugs for _you_, pup."

Her fingers curved to tickle him just as Nathaniel fell into the room.

For a long moment he just stared at the three of them piled in the bed, and Brand would rather he had caught her and Anders alone and doing something unspeakably depraved. _That_ would be less of an affront to him _and_ to Teagan's memory than the sight of them as a family.

"Commander," his voice was edged in acid. "I seem to have misplaced your _friend_."

Momentarily confused, Brand let out a low snort of laughter before her stomach went dreadfully nervous at what he actually _meant_. Careful to not seem too upset in front of Bryce, she extricated herself from Anders' arm and gave him a look she hoped he understood: _Stay put and keep _him_ safe._

Nate waited in the hallway, his brow drawn low in frustration.

"Did you look for him downstairs?" Brand hated how panic was licking up her spine, pulling her nerves tight and making her hyperaware of everything in the hallway, but especially Nate's almost visceral disapproval of her. "Has anyone seen him?"

Fortunately, he was able to put his aside his anger.

"I spoke with Beatrice. They're missing a few bottles of whiskey, although there was a handful of coppers on the bar. Whoever stole them at least _tried_ to pay."

Brand's stomach twisted, "A few _bottles_? Maker, he's going to kill himself."

"Either that or he was running away and stocking up on essentials," Nate's lips pressed into a tight line. "I don't know how long he's been gone. When I awoke and he wasn't there, I assumed he'd already gone downstairs. He left his boots behind, though, so if he's traveling on foot, he couldn't have gotten _too_ far."

"Thank you, Nathaniel," she slid past him and hurried down the stairs to shoot across the common room and foyer to the front veranda.

Although clear, it was barely light outside, the sun weakly signaling its intent to rise over the bluff that overlooked the docks of Gosport. Fishermen and sailors were already preparing for their day on the water and Brand could see a knot of them standing on a distant pier, their backs to the inn and gales of laughter carrying through the chill morning air to where she had paused to collect herself.

Walking as quickly as she could without it being a full-blown run, Brand assessed the numbers and composition of the crowd. There were maybe ten men, most of them older and probably not very adept at fighting. Two of them, though, may have been her age or younger, it was hard to tell from a distance as they were heavily tattooed.

Drawing closer, she made out a man's voice, low and slurring.

"Go ahead and push me in if you want, you might even get the _Hero of Ferelden_ to come and reward you for your efforts."

"The Hero of Ferelden?" This came from one of the tattooed men. "I'm sorry, but heroes have better things to worry about then sodding drunks what come and try to steal another man's livelihood."

Brand stepped onto the pier and debated exactly how much of a smartass she should be in this situation. Blood was roaring in her ears and her left arm felt as if it might be useless for any task more strenuous than waving. Fortunately, it seemed like _words_ might be the best way to get through this crowd and to _Alistair_.

_Maker help me, I am going to have Fiona sit him down and give him a good talking to once this is all done._

"Actually, you might be surprised at what heroes have to worry about," the men turned back to her, eyes widening in surprise before narrowing in appraisal. A few of them then went to genuine awe, which never failed to make her uncomfortable. "Although attempting to kill him will gain you nothing but my ire and, probably, an appointment with Bann Fuller, or...me."

"You're...the Hero of Ferelden?" One of the older men scowled and ran his eyes over her. She was certain she must look decidedly disheveled and not terribly impressive in her crumpled traveling clothes. "We're supposed to just..._believe_ that?"

Brand shrugged as noncommittally as she could, and then lifted her shirt to reveal a twisting scar that ran from just above her left hip and circled upwards before stopping right at her spine nearly halfway up her back. Wynne had managed to close the wound before anything vital spilled out, impressive considering she was merely working off of the _assumption_ that Brand was hurt, but the scar left behind was still...

"Awesome," this came from one of the tattooed men, and he shook his head as if trying to clear it. "Did that...Archdemon thing do _that_ to you? _Wow_. And you _survived_?"

"In almost one piece, too," Brand dropped her shirt and nodded towards Alistair, who was staring at her in open-mouthed shock as he teetered on the end of the pier. "I apologize for whatever has happened here and, rest assured, I will replace anything that has been taken, broken or diminished. I just...I just need to speak with my friend here..._alone_."

To her surprise, the men disbanded without question, although one of them did stop to point at Alistair, "He broke my chum-bucket. Stepped in it and split'er right in half."

"_Gross_," her eyes went to Alistair's bare feet which were, mercifully, chum free. "I'll leave your compensation with Erin at the inn and, again, I'm so sorry."

As the last of the men cleared away, Brand focused herself on Alistair, whose eyes had never left her. Walking towards him, she realized that his pants were completely wet and the panic she'd felt earlier when Nathaniel had announced his disappearance returned and mingled with growing frustration.

"Alistair," the edge of her voice was distress. "Alistair, what are you _doing_? _Why_ are your pants wet? And what in the Maker's name were you doing with your foot in someone's _chum bucket_?"

She was now standing in front of him and he looked down at her with a belligerent expression, although his eyes sparked dully with something resembling anguished regret.

"Nice of you to come and save me, my dear. Too bad you're about six years too late," if she hadn't spent a handful of drunken nights with him, she might not have been able to make out half of what he said.

"I didn't come here to save you, Alistair," Brand crossed her arms over her chest. "That's beyond me at this point. All I want is to keep you safe until you decide to stop..." she threw her hands out to gesture at him. "This. When will you _stop_ this? You smell like fish guts and whiskey vomit, you're wet and barefoot and...now Anders is going to have to get more reagents for your..."

She didn't want to continue, the topic of conversation cutting dangerously close to her heart. It had been one thing when Anders had quietly handed Alistair the vial containing an herbal mixture that would help with the physical symptoms of his withdrawal, but quite another to put it into words. She knew from their experience with Oghren how the latter could be perceived as so much more judgmental than the former, and all she needed was for Alistair to think she was _judging_ him.

"What does it matter if I'm..._that_?" He wavered again, his foot turning and his loss of balance nearly sending him off the pier. She grabbed his arm to steady him and he glared at her hand as if it were burning him but, by the time his eyes found hers, they were pleading. "Why can't you just..._stop_."

"Stop _what_? I don't know what I'm _doing_, Alistair. I thought that we'd moved past _this_."

His head wobbled a bit and he turned slowly to look out at the brightening sky as it spread over a steel colored sea.

"_This_. Don't you have what you need from me? I told you what I know, so now we can get to the other part, the part where you move on to something or someone better," his slurring was less pronounced as he bit these words, every one drenched in bitter self-loathing.

"_Move on?_" There was an echo of disbelief there, although she really had no place to be disbelieving. For all outward appearances, she _had_ moved on. And _incredibly_ quickly, too.

"Did you ever even love me?"

Brand's heart stopped. For a long moment, she though she may have misheard him, the slur returning. But then she realized that he was crying and, when she made it to his side, tears were sliding unchecked down his cheeks, although his face remained still.

"I don't know."

_This_ was not what she had expected to come out of her mouth. She _had_ known, hadn't she? Some night years ago, with Morrigan disdainful next to her and her life unspooling around her as she tried to kill herself via a slow fade, a sad ending for a life that was never supposed to be so sad. She'd also known before her wedding, as she'd gathered and buried dreams of a future with _him_ that would never be.

His chin had dropped, his shoulders stooped down in defeat and her hand went up his arm. She expected him to flinch, but he didn't.

"I thought I did, afterwards. But I was so, so, so..." she couldn't think of an eloquent way to put it, a way to describe the scope of her regret. "I missed you so much, Alistair. I would have just given up and let death take me and let _him_ finish what he started, but no one would give me the chance. They saved me when we should have been saving _you_."

He didn't respond and continued to stare at his feet, although his jaw was clenching and unclenching and tears kept falling.

"And I missed you. But not as a lover, or a friend even. I just...missed _you_. Your face, your smile, your voice. Every time I saw _him_ where you should have been, it was like the sun going out. I didn't think I'd ever be able to do more than exist, I thought that I would never be happy again, or close to it. I married a man I didn't love, who deserved better, and I tethered myself to a life of _close enough_. All because of what I had done to you."

He finally raised his gaze, his eyes shooting sideways to find her own.

"Can you tell me why, then? Can you tell me what it was about me that made it so incredibly _easy_ for you to, to ignore when I needed you to hear me the most?" His voice broke and he was so much a sad little boy that she found herself thinking of Bryce and then of the series of people who had left Alistair, or had let him be left, or had pushed him away. _Or betrayed him._

"It wasn't you, Alistair. It was never, _ever_ about you in that moment. When we killed people before, they were just anonymous criminals who were wronging innocent people. But Howe, and Cauthrien...they had wronged _me_ and when I killed them, it wasn't just because they would have killed me otherwise. It was _because_ they had wronged me. It went someplace beyond survival to revenge and, by the time we got to Loghain, I was exhausted and confused and terrified that I could end up like _him_ and _them_. And I couldn't do it...I couldn't take that _step_ that might have put me beyond recovery."

"_I_ would have taken that step _for you_, Brand" he still wore a veil of not entirely together, but his statement was emphatic rather than accusing.

"Why would I let you? I didn't want you to feel what I was feeling."

"Losing me was better?"

"No," the word ached with sadness. "But I thought I'd at least have a chance to tell you what I planned on doing, that I _never_ intended him to be with _us_, that I just wanted him to be _around_ in case we were in a situation where more Wardens were needed. But _you_ left, and I was stuck with _him_ and I was so broken after the Blight...I should have never let you stay lost. I should have went to the ends of the world for you, to let you know these things: that I didn't want you to leave, that I didn't mean to betray you, that I cared for you and missed you so much."

He remained silent for several minutes, watching the water, watching his feet, watching the air. And then he looked at her, his brow down and his voice tentative, "Do you really mean that?"

"Every word," she moved closer to him, her arm catching his elbow, and her head resting against his shoulder. "And I care for you _now_, Alistair. I really, _really_ do. And I want you to get back to who you _are_, not who you've convinced yourself you are. _That_ is what I want more than anything, even if _I'm_ not the one who helps you."

Even though he reeked of so many unpleasant things, and was shivering in the morning chill, she still found comfort in touching him, because she could tell _he_ took it as comfort.

Her face turned slightly towards him, the corner of her mouth pressing thoughtfully against his bared arm, and then she smiled. The world was, for once, calm and there was a genuine peace between them. Perhaps, if she told him what she'd been tasked with telling him, his place in the _now_ would be solidified and he could stop wavering between past and present, worthy and unworthy.

"Why are you smiling?" He'd seemed incredibly relieved not moments before, but there was a hint of dubiousness now that she didn't pick up on until it was too late.

"I was just," Brand could not believe what she was about to say, and her lips quirked again. "You know Fiona, right?"

"Of course I know Fiona...I sat beside her for ten hours yesterday," it came out slowly, as if Brand were trying to catch him in a lie _or worse_. "What about her?"

"She's your mother."

The words hung in the air, weightless despite being loaded as anything could be, and she held her breath awaiting his response.

She expected doubt, or disbelief, or denial. She even expected small amounts of hurt. What she didn't expect was:

"_Fuck you_," he yanked away from her, his face gone crimson with rage. "I'm drunk, but I'm not _stupid_...is this all just a _game_ to you? Or are you trying to break me _again_?"

"_What?_ Alistair! No! Not even..." but he wasn't going to give her another chance, his heavy footsteps rocking the pier as he stormed away, leaving her behind to wonder how she could have miscalculated yet another situation so horribly.

* * *

Inside the inn was supposed to be safe and quiet, but when Brand entered, still reeling from her whiplash inducing conversation with Alistair, it was not quiet _at all_.

The Amells were kind enough to not be freaking out, mostly because Brand and her companions were the only guests present, but they were visibly concerned that something, or someone, might end up broken. _That_, at least, was utterly valid.

Brand could hear Alistair shouting all the way in the common room, his voice carrying down the stairwell as he tore into...Anders probably. As she rushed up the stairs, his words were taking form:

"I didn't _ask_ you if you wanted me to tell her, I _told_ you that I'm telling her," Alistair was standing nearest to her, with his back towards the stairwell. Anders was just inside the door to his room and Bryce clung to his pant leg, peering around at the other man. "I mean, unless _you_ want to tell her. I'm certain she'd like to know. It seems the..._right_ thing to do."

"What?" Anders' eyes flicked to her face when she spoke and he looked positively stricken at her presence. "Tell me _what_?"

Alistair didn't turn around.

"So, who's it going to be? You or me, _mage_?"

The way he said _mage_ made her skin crawl, as if _mage_ was the worst thing in the world, as if Anders was filthy for being one. She prayed that Fiona could not hear him, although she was fairly certain that Antivans could hear him. In _Antiva_.

"Alistair, you need to stop talking before you hurt someone," Anders' tone was controlled, remarkably so given the way his posture indicated discomfort.

"I didn't know I was supposed to care about _that_," Alistair sniffed and leaned against the wall, his face angling back towards Brand. "Do you want to know what _really_ happened yesterday?"

Her mind flashed back to _yesterday_, the assassin in the tavern, the somber ride to Gosport, the night spent talking and gaming at the inn. There was no mystery there. They were all together from the moment they left the city until they...went to bed.

_Oh_.

She stepped forward, her heart beating a little faster and her stomach going hot with the beginnings of jealousy.

"What does he mean, Anders? What _about_ yesterday?"

"Brand, he doesn't know what he's talking about," he shifted his weight, his voice slightly higher than it should be.

_He's lying._

"Liar," Alistair's head went back against the wall and he smiled a grin that was unseemly and cruel, his dark eyes turning to her. "I bet you'd say he was just trying to protect you, but _I_ know better."

What Brand was starting to feel went beyond panic or jealousy- it was black and hopeless. Something was wrong. _Wrong_ wrong. Anders' face screamed it, and Alistair's indolence only confirmed it. Her breath caught and what air she was able to draw came in hitching gasps, her lungs resisting her best efforts.

"Anders?" It was a desperate whisper, a plea from a woman to the man she loved, and he turned to press his face into the doorframe, a gesture of complete defeat from someone who rarely admitted such.

"_Anders_?" Alistair was mocking her, a broken laugh falling from his mouth that sheared at her like a real thing with sharpened edges. "So tell her, _mage_. Break her heart; I'm interested to see if it can actually be done."

Like it had happened in the guest room in her apartment, a light flared from Anders' hands and jolted Alistair, sending him crashing to the floor. It even left behind the same smell, post rain sky. But she was no longer worried about Alistair, her nerves too frayed from whatever it was that Anders _wasn't_ saying as he stared at her over the distance between them.

"What was he _talking_ about, Anders?"

"Brand, just...just forget about it, ok? He's drunk, and angry and he doesn't undertstand," his hand moved at his side to touch Byce's head, the child staring at Alistair's motionless form with eyes that were so knowing and..._ashamed_.

_Why does he look so _ashamed_?_

"I can't, Anders. I can't just _forget_ and I can't ignore the look on your face," she sounded to herself as if she were speaking from the end of an impossibly long tunnel, and she began to step towards him, _slowly_, as if the air was physically resisting her progress. "Did you..._do_ something last night? With _her_?"

His eyes went wide at the accusation and it was obviously the last thing he expected her to ask.

"No! Absolutely not. Brand, I would never...I don't even want to be with..." he dropped his eyes to the floor and sighed. "I didn't want to tell you this. Not now, not with everything else going on."

And there was something so _absolute_ about what he said and how he said it, that her hand went to the wall for support. She was only a few feet away from them now, her lover and her son, and they wore matching faces of _please, don't think less of me when you know_.

"Just _tell_ me," her throat ached, suddenly bone dry, and her heart was forgetting how to beat correctly _at all_, fitting and starting and jumping and falling from second to second. "For the love of the Maker, Anders. How bad can it be?"

"Brand...I didn't. I wasn't the one who..._shocked_ the assassin in the tavern yesterday morning," Anders voice broke and he lowered his chin expectantly.

She made a noise of disbelief because it was a joke _right_? There _were_ no other mages besides Fiona, and Fiona was _not_ in a position to hit the man. Anders _had _been, however. So unless there was some other mage in there willing to risk discovery or his _life_ to save her from being attacked, Anders was the only one who could have done it.

"That's _impossible_. Who else was there?" The bolt had been powerful, if a bit unfocused. She remembered the aftershock of it across her skin and how angry Fiona had been that Anders would do such a thing in a room full of people, and then she remembered Anders on the floor, Bryce in his lap, and how both of them had looked at that moment, and how they looked the rest of the day, like death was hanging over them, because it was and

Bryce's face jumped out at her now, even as he turned closer to Anders' leg, tears beginning to fill his eyes. There was so much _shame_ there, so much more than any four year-old should _ever_ know and certainly should feel in front of his own mother. Her heart stopped at the realization that hit, as incisive and painful as any dagger or sword that had ever cleaved at her flesh, as horrible as any words that had been uttered to her out of cruelty, drunken or otherwise.

"_No_." There was the weight of an entire _life_ on those two letters, the weight of someone who had lost her everything twice over and there was no way that it could happen _again_.

But...but..._Bryce_ wasn't supposed to have happened, but he _had_, and they belonged to each other and she was supposed to have at least twenty more years with him, to get to know him the way she'd longed to the very first time she had held him and now he was..._no_. _Anything but that_. Anything, anything, anything, _anything_.

"_Anything_ but that," but she was on her knees, arms outstretched, and her son was in them within seconds, face buried against her neck. She held him so tightly she was afraid that he might cry out in pain.

Instead, he cried because she cried, his tears that were her tears hot on her skin _and who will hold him when he's sad if we can't? Who will know what it means when he bites his lip or asks about the ploughman and Maroo?_

"Momma," he whispered this, his fingers curling against her chest. "Momma, why are we so sad?"

_Because you are my heart and nobody should have to lock up their heart in a cold tower of stone._

"We're sad because this is a surprise," she tilted his chin up so he could see her eyes when she said this, her face forcing itself into a reassuring smile. "But it doesn't change how I feel about you, Bryce. I love you more than anything and I _always _will."

That was one thing, at least, that not even the Maker himself could take from her.


	31. Alone

**Note from SF**: In the process of writing _Undertow_, I have been confronted by the dearth of background for Anders. Fortunately, Miri1984 has written a lovely story, _The Ties That Bind_, that fills in Anders' life from birth until he was taken to the Tower. Since it's perfect for _this _tale, and since she was generous enough to allow me permission, all references to his childhood from this point on are from _The Ties That Bind_. If you haven't read it yet, you absolutely should (see my favorite stories).

So, with that, I would like to extend a _huge _thanks to Miri for filling in the gaps in our Anders' knowledge so beautifully and another to Sandtigress for her awesome and appreciated advice (and support).

* * *

Packs were gathered, and Bryce taken downstairs with Fiona. Alistair was still unconscious in the hallway; Nathaniel and Sigrun had been given orders to restrain him if he came around. Although, given his state of mind before he'd even been knocked out, _that _was unlikely.

Brand had changed, stripping away her shirt and pants that reeked, she swore, like a fisherman's chum bucket and pulling on a green linen dress. Anders helped her secure the laces at the back, her hands shaking and his own desperate to touch her.

He'd hoped that the closeness would facilitate conversation, or _more_ closeness, but she'd pulled away before he could do anything beyond tying a neat knot at the small of her back.

Now she was pacing, but not in any linear back and forth path. They were in the room she'd shared with Fiona, so she rambled around the beds, weaving between them and finally settling down on one, her knees held primly together by her still-shaking hands, her back perfectly straight and her eyes dead and staring into nothingness in front of her.

"We should go," there was the tiniest scrape of grief that echoed within the meaninglessness of this statement, and then she remained motionless forever, only blinking and breathing and occasionally pulling her lip between her teeth.

Anders sat on the bed that was across from her, his elbows on his knees and his head between his hands. He'd been where she was yesterday, but now that they both knew he wanted to talk to her about what to do next, and how they were going to handle this situation. He was feeling the twist of panic in his stomach, a familiar sense that they wouldn't be safe until they had a plan; the templars could show up at any second and the thought of _Bryce_ at their mercy, even the mercy of a kind templar, if such a thing existed, was too much for him to bear.

He looked up, and Brand was watching _him_ now, tears streaking her cheeks, "So much for normal, huh?"

One hand offered itself, and he took it to pull _her_ over to him, leaning back against the bed so that she could settle on top of him, her head tucked beneath his chin and his arms protective around her. For a few minutes, they just adjusted their breathing to better fit each other, inhaling and exhaling in tandem, off only by milliseconds that didn't count when life was suspended in between heartbreak and hopelessness.

"This isn't hopeless," he was arguing with himself, but he knew it to be true. "Mages are raised outside of the Circle all the time. If they're trained well enough, by someone who knows exactly what they're doing..." _Like me_, was implied but remained unspoken. "If they're trained, they can avoid detection their entire lives."

Brand pressed her cheek closer to his chest, and he could feel the trickle of tears spilling from where she touched him to the collar of his shirt.

"_Lives_, but what kind of lives?" her voice was bitter. "Always on the run, always one eye on the door, always hoping nobody asks too many questions, or recognizes them from _anywhere_."

"Some mages can have _normal_ lives," his throat ached as he remembered his _own_ before the Tower, and the one he sometimes imagined could have been again. "They can have homes, and families."

"Some mages can, but not all of them. A minority, I imagine. And Bryce isn't a merchant or a merchant's son, Anders. Bryce is nobility, the heir to the Redcliffe Arling. He can't just disappear, or move away, and have nobody notice."

"I actually had another idea, for Bryce," he spoke carefully. This was not going to go over well with her, intimately knowing as she did all the downsides of what he was about to propose. "I think that you should conscript him."

_This_ got a reaction; she pushed up so she could look him in the eyes, everything about her demeanor saying _you have got to be kidding me with this_.

"_Conscript_ him? As in...make him drink _darkspawn_ blood? As in possibly _kill_ him?"

_You monster_ was mercifully omitted.

"Maker, _no_. Not _now_," he touched her cheek. "When he's older and actually capable of fighting, if anyone finds out."

She sat up completely, straddling his hips, frowning thoughtfully, "What if he's discovered before then? Even if he _isn't_ we'll have a hard time explaining how he came to be so well-trained."

"Then train him in something else," it was perfectly simple and Anders was quite proud of himself for having thought about it the night before. "Nobody would think anything of him being a warrior, and some of the stuff _you_ do is practically indistinguishable from magic anyway. If something happens and he's discovered- conscript. Once he's a Grey Warden, he's safe."

Brand didn't respond for several seconds, her eyes distant and impossibly sad.

"I had a different idea," she moved off him to return to her position on the other bed, a gesture that hurt, although he kept the outward signs of _that_ to a slight pull at the corner of his mouth. "After Highever, I had planned to go the Tower, to tell Connor about his father in person. I thought...," she was unable to finish the statement. After all, how does one say _I thought we could leave him _when _him_ is the center of their world? "I think it might be for the best."

She couldn't look at him, and Anders felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Of course _he'd_ thought about this, but all _he_ could see was little Bryce lost in the cold, cavernous rooms and hallways at the Tower, Bryce brightly asking questions that were summarily dismissed by his instructors or harassed by the templars, Bryce waking in the middle of the night and not finding anyone or anything familiar.

"Brand, you _can't_," he was upright, feet on the floor. "You don't know what it's like."

"Don't I?" Her eyes hardened. "Don't I know what it's like at its absolute worst? Abominations and corpses _everywhere_, mages and templars driven to near-madness. Do you think that I haven't already pictured him at the center of _that_, seeing his world fall apart and thinking that _that_ could be him because he's told _every_ _day_ that he's just a dangerous little sack waiting to be filled by a demon? Do you think I haven't been listening to you all these years? Or paying attention when I visit Connor?"

"Then why in Andraste's name would you even _think_ about subjecting him to that?" Anders' vision narrowed, his pulse quickening as his brain tried to assemble arguments that wouldn't tread too close to _I know how to better handle your son's life_.

"Because I've seen the other side, too," Brand's hands were together in her lap, twisting against one another. "I saw what happened to innocent people when Lady Isolde tried to hide Connor, how so many died because one person wanted to circumvent the rules. The desperation everyone was feeling made it so easy for them to be taken advantage of. I can't..." she swallowed hard and curled her fingers against her palms. "I _can't_ give into that desperation, Anders. I can't let my love for him force me into doing something foolish, or dangerous."

"So you're going to sentence him _for life_ because some Chantry nut hired an incompetent _boob_ to train _her_ son and things fell apart from there?" He was having a hard time keeping his voice down, not out of anger as much as frustration. _This_ was like being in dark room full of traps; no matter which route he chose he ran the risk of setting one off. The entire _situation_ was going to be a lot of hoping they only encountered the flimsy ones and not those that would cut them in half before they even knew they'd hit the trigger.

Of course, beyond frustration was Brand's face, wounded. He thought to comfort her, but he had _tried_ that only to be left alone.

"Do you not trust me to teach him? I managed to keep him from even telling _you_ this morning," this was one of those things that Anders probably shouldn't have said, as it could be taken entirely the wrong way.

"And that's why _you_ didn't tell me, I imagine. To protect me, but also to prove how effective a teacher you could be."

His eyes darted from her gaze, which wasn't accusatory, exactly. Just as her statement wasn't exactly untrue.

"I _do_ trust you to teach him how to _use_ magic, but I don't trust Bryce's ability to _not_ be a four year-old," she was flushed now. "He has no concept of the dangers of being a mage. It's been a part of his life since the _second_ he was born, and it's never been hidden or explained or vilified. And, after what you just did to Alistair, you're _hardly_ the one teach him about self-control."

Anders flinched visibly and scowled.

"I asked you to not _do_ that to him anymore," the corners of her mouth turned down. "He needs to trust us."

"You mean you need him to trust _you_. _Fine_. Next time someone is mocking your pain, I'll be sure to just step out for a few minutes so they have the opportunity to finish uninterrupted," now his frustration was _turning_ to anger, he could feel it pressing against the back of his throat, making it difficult to swallow. Maker, he didn't want to hurt her _more_, but didn't she know what it was like to be in his position right now? "He was tearing you apart, and in front of Bryce. He deserved _worse_."

"No," her head shook slowly. "He had his reasons, Anders. He was..."

"Don't say justified. _Nothing_ you could have _ever_ done to him could _ever_ justify wanting to see you upset like that. Not to say how he made _Bryce_ feel," he didn't mention himself, the way Alistair's words had caught him in a vulnerable place and undone the careful groundwork he'd laid over the past day, most of which was just his own coming to terms with _it_ and then coming to terms with how it would devastate Brand. "Bryce doesn't understand what really happened, but _he_ thinks Alistair is his _friend_ and...it's not fair for you to keep making excuses."

"If you had any idea how much _I_ hurt _him_…," she found her feet, arms across her chest. "Not that you're going to listen."

He joined her in standing, suddenly very incapable of dealing with this anymore.

"No, I _won't_ listen. Not to your _reasons_ for letting Alistair get away with what he did, not your _reasons_ for giving in so quickly to _fear_ that will take away something that doesn't have to be lost. And I'm certainly not going to give you another opportunity to chastise me for defending you," his voice caught and tried to hold onto the words that were begging to follow. _This might be the end of you and her, and you could lose it _all_ if you're not more careful..._ "It's starting to seem like the more he hurts you the more you care...or maybe that's your _thing_ now. I, for one, don't need you that much."

So he left.

He made it as far as the staircase, his eyes doing everything to avoid the sight of Alistair still sprawled in the hallway. From below, he could hear Coire singing and Bryce's laughter, high and sweet. It would be easy for him to go down there, to slip into a chair beside Fiona and lose himself in something positive for a few minutes.

Only...it wouldn't be easy _at all_. Brand would still be up here _alone_, and he'd had enough of her being alone by the time Bryce was born, even if some of her alone had been his own fault because he didn't know what to do with the fact that he _wanted her_ despite all the reasons why _that_ was the worst idea _ever_.

Actually, he'd been tired of her _alone_ even before then, on the afternoon that she'd been attacked by Rylock and Rylock's lackeys. Brand had ordered Anders to stay out of it, _for the love of the Maker_, and do nothing more than heal her and stun anyone who came to close to him. He did as he was told, barely surviving having to watch the self-righteous fury they poured into her with their swords and their maces.

She'd fallen to her knees just as Rylock did, only Rylock was dead and Brand was only halfway there, blood streaming from her mouth and dripping from her armor. All _Anders_ could do was heal her in generic ways, unwilling as she was to share any of her pain with him. Even that night at camp, she'd sat away from everyone and slowly bandaged herself, the full price of protecting _him_ her own secret.

Now she was doing the exact same thing with Alistair, shielding him from blows that he deserved to have land, to protect him and save him the way she'd protected Anders, by taking the blame and the abuse instead.

And he'd walked right into _that_, hadn't he? His parting words came back like a sharp flick between the eyes, and he turned on his heel and hurried back to where she stood motionless in the center of the room. The door shut and locked behind him with a crack in the silence as his mind fluttered through the things he could say that would make her understand what she _needed_ to understand.

"I'm not going to hurt you because that's what you want," his voice was quiet, and he moved closer, his hands finding their place on either side of her neck, thumbs directing her chin up. "And I'm not going to leave you alone, so don't even _think_ about pushing at me again."

Her eyes were fastened on his, a hundred emotions lost to a flash of gratitude.

"I'm afraid of what would happen to you if the Chantry were to find out you were training Bryce in secret," her hands pulled at his shirt. "Everything is so out of control right now, the thought that one tiny mistake could destroy us..._he'd_ be taken, you _could _be taken, and I might not be allowed to see either of you again. It's almost too much to even consider..."

"Then don't," his fingers curled into her hair. "We don't _have_ to make a long-term decision today, and maybe that's for the best. He's so young that, if something _does_ happen again, nobody will suspect that it's not the first time. After things have stopped being so absolutely _insane_, then it might be a bit easier to see all the options."

"All right," she let out a shaky breath. "You can work with him, in secret. Does anyone else know?" Nate, Sigrun and Fiona had all been at the neighboring store to trade for supplies when Alistair had come in from the pier. "Did you tell any of them?"

He shook his head, unwilling to share the one discussion he _did _have on the subject, a secret to be held unless absolutely forced.

"Now what to do about Alistair?" The way she said his name was a weary shudder given voice.

"We'll haul him downstairs, I suppose, and chuck him into the coach. I have to say, chucking him _off_ the _bluff_ seems as good an idea as any," he sighed and pressed the heels of his hand more firmly against her neck. "I need you to realize something, Brand."

Her mouth twitched in a gesture of _just something_?

"You two have been destroying each other for over five years. It's not going to end just because you want it to," he felt her breath catch. "It's going to be a brutal cycle of _hoping_ and _backsliding_ that will _consume_ you if you let it. We can keep him safe, but you're _not_ going to save him. You'll only wreck yourself trying and I... I think you should _stop_."

To his utter shock, she conceded, her posture relaxing slightly, chest shifting forward to press against his. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be overwhelmed by her- the heat of her body, the softness of her hair beneath his fingertips, how she smelled like the morning. She had relented and it was _over_.

"I'm sorry that _this_ couldn't be easier, or better."

"I would be a fool to think anything beyond just _being_ with you would be easy," he felt his mouth curving into a smile. He so wanted to move past this entire horrible morning. "And when you're _good_, there isn't _anything_ better."

"I shouldn't have said that you lack self-control," she was melting into his touch, but there was the slightest glint of defiance in her eyes.

"No, I _did_ lose control. I'll have to learn to be more careful in front of Bryce. Fortunately, I can be almost as reckless as I want around _you_," his chin tilted down and their mouths met forcefully, everything outside of _Brand and Anders_ disappearing as their lips parted to each others' tongues, his throat tickling with desire that also bloomed up towards his stomach, warm and welcome _and the only thing that can get between me and this woman is this woman_.

His grasp slid to her hips and he pulled them as close as he could. She responded by arching her back so that there was as much contact as possible. At every point they touched, whether skin to skin or through clothing, was brightness and pleasure and _relief_.

And although her hand drawing gently but purposefully against him was the most outstanding point of all, it was the _relief_ that made him never want to stop _this_ and he could tell by the urgent way her fingers were starting to work between them that there was a straight line from _this_ to _more_ and his head went afloat as he was consumed with a wave of _yes, yes, this would be an incredibly awesome __way to improve the day_.

It was also _incredibly _short lived as, only a few minutes later, knuckles rapping on the door caught them tangled on the bed, both swimming in pale green linen. Her head dropped against his thigh in a clear signal of the same frustration that he was feeling.

"We will finish this tonight," they hurried to compose themselves, which was easier for _her_ by far. With everything almost where it should be, he caught her wrist and pressed his face against her neck, his teeth catching her just below the ear. "And we will build furniture barricades and lash ourselves together if that's what it takes."

"I'm sure the innkeeper will love us for that," she stepped away to gather her pack and settled it across her shoulders. "I think I'm going to be unwelcome in every inn and tavern in the coastlands at this rate."

Sigrun was waiting for them in the hall, arms crossed and eyes bright.

"What did I interrupt?" She bounced on the balls of her feet and started to the stairs.

"Nothing."

"_Everything_," Anders gave Brand a sideways look and nudged her in the ribcage. "Thanks for making me feel _special_."

But she was already distracted by Alistair, a frown creasing her forehead and her eyes going dark. Anders couldn't tell if she was sad or angry before the moment passed to find her face carefully composed.

She kneeled down next to him.

"Nathaniel already took his pack to the coach, and Fiona put his boots on," Sigrun pointed to Alistair's now shod feet. Brand looked up at Anders, a meaningful gaze that only confused him.

"_What_?"

"Oh, that's right," her head shook slightly. "I haven't told you yet."

"Told me what?" He poked his foot forward. "Fiona doesn't have a thing for him, does she?"

"That's exactly what I thought, but...no," she stood up carefully. "Alistair is her son."

Anders stared at the man on the floor in front of him- tall, blond and very not waify elflike.

"Well, that makes absolutely _no_ sense. And I thought Alistair's father was King What's-His-Stuff?"

"King Maric? He was," Brand went for Alistair's feet, and Anders reached down and took his shoulders. As they had done just over a week before, they maneuvered his slack form awkwardly towards a staircase. Even though her expression was pained, Brand managed her end without complaint. "Fiona had a _thing _with him. Apparently."

"Hmm," Anders thought of Fiona, beautiful and prickly. It was difficult to imagine her with anyone besides Varel of the Bottomless Patience, let alone a _king_. "Huh. I'm actually _impressed_. Go _Fiona_."

Brand nodded in mute agreement, her eyes narrowed in thought. Anders realized, of course, that _this_ was why she was able to let go of Alistair's salvation so easily, because she had a fallback.

And here he'd thought he was just that good.


	32. Confirmation

**Note from SurelyForth:** Hi! I apologize for going so long between updates. I'll try not to let it happen again!

However, for those of you who haven't seen it, I posted a bonus story, _Undertow: Scars_, on my story page. Consider it Chapter 32.5 or something.

As always, thank you for reading!

* * *

Alistair jolted awake and immediately wished he hadn't.

As in _ever_.

His face felt as if someone had cracked it against a wall, his entire body ached with fresh bruises and his head...

"Oh, _Maker_. What did I _do_ last night?"

A warm chuckle sounded beside him, and Alistair found his attention drawn to his traveling companion- a man with a long, almost delicate face, wide eyes and a mouth that twisted into all sorts of little smirks and grimaces. Now it was smiling.

"Nothing you haven't done before," Gob shook out his head, his mop of loose brown waves catching the afternoon sun that was further complicating Alistair's headache. "Just...a lot more of it."

"Well, I don't remember anything," Alistair sighed and ran one hand across his forehead. "Not that _that_ should come as a surprise to you," he sat up and looked around. "How did we end up in somebody's wagon?"

He and Gob were indeed in the back of what appeared to be the cart belonging to a traveling merchant, although the bed itself was only partially filled with plain wooden trunks. Alistair recognized his pack, heavily stained from a robbery turned ugly, tucked into a nearby corner and he pulled it close hoping to find a health poultice or something that would lessen the fire pressing steadily behind his eyes.

"Now if you can't remember _that_ then you _are_ in a sad state, my friend," Gob pulled out a small parcel from his plain grey robes, clothing meant for dark rooms and shadowed alleys. As Alistair took the offered herbs, selecting a pinch for his purposes, he reflected on the man beside him. He could have been any age between fifteen and forty, a strange juxtaposition of clear, unlined skin and blue eyes that hinted at a long lifetime of knowing that which most people would rather die than learn. He was of average height, average build, and average looks. He wasn't someone you noticed but someone you forgot the moment you didn't have to think about him.

His nickname was Goblin, he said with a wink, because he was a nasty surprise.

Alistair had met him in the tavern by the docks in Wycome barely an hour after he'd stepped foot on foreign soil. Of course _met_ was both too strong a word yet far too simplistic to explain how they'd come to be in each other's company.

There had been a group of men somewhere to the left of where Alistair sat at the bar and he could hear them answering questions he imagined that someone probably didn't want them to be answering:

"...nah, I think Hiram told _Beckett_ that _Flip_ knew where the contact was supposed to find'em, so _Hiram_ was the one what wanted Flip outta the picture."

Then low murmuring.

"Are you monkeying us? Even just a fraction of Flip's business would be a sight more than Hiram's use to seein'. I'll tell ya, it's hard for a man to get paid if he ain't workin' for old Flip these days," the man cleared his voice. "So you got the...?"

More murmuring.

"What do you mean you've reconsidered your offer?" There was now a dangerous edge to a voice that had been, up until this point, convivial. Alistair heard the tell-tale scrape of steel against leather and he mentally touched his own sword, secure at his hip. He'd stay out of this.

Without warning something subtle flared within him, a bloom that indicated magic was being used. He turned his attention to the source and saw a forgettable man in forgettable robes watching two sellswords walk away, their faces twisted as if they had suddenly forgotten the past five minutes of their lives.

Making people forget, Alistair came to find out, was Gob's specialty. Quite useful for an apostate.

In the tavern, their gazes met briefly and a flicker of concern showed itself in the mage's eyes. Alistair simply returned to his whiskey and water, his mind trying very hard to pull itself out of a spiral of despair that would render him entirely useless if allowed to continue.

Mood persisting, and encouraged by the alcohol, he remained at the bar, nursing a series of whiskies until he realized he was drinking away any chance he had of sleeping in a bed anytime soon.

Leaving the tavern was difficult, the world out there _foreign_ in every sense of the word. Still, as he stumbled into a balmy evening that smelled like salt water and wet wood, at least he wasn't _crying_.

There was a shadow waiting for him a few paces away from the door, a dark and lurking form with pale eyes. For a few long seconds Alistair blinked through the fog of _do I know you?_ before he caught the glint of metal against grey and he automatically had his sword unsheathed to easily counter the attack, the other man's dagger clattering uselessly to the ground at Alistair's feet.

Despite his inebriation, Alistair knew the next blow would be a magical one. Finding focus in the whiskey-slicked corners of his brain, he was able to draw everything together to muster a smite that knocked the mage back, breaking his spell without doing any real harm.

"Seriously?" the man's voice was evenly pitched and unaccented. "I thought that templars preferred their addictions a little more exotic."

Alistair carefully returned his sword to his hip and smirked, "I never developed the taste for lyrium, to be honest." Without losing his lock on the mage, he picked up the dagger and offered it to his opponent.

"That's something we have in common," the man stepped forward to accept his weapon which disappeared with disconcerting ease into an undisclosed fold of his robes. "I'm thinking it might behoove us to have more in common. You're _impressive_ and, I'm guessing from your accent, new to the area."

Alistair felt his guard go up, something that should have happened a week ago when the Rivaini captain offered him work in exchange for passage out of Ferelden. How good an idea was it to even listen to what this guy had to say?

Probably not a good idea _at all_.

He kept his silence, but nodded noncommittally.

"I have someone who would like to meet you," he tilted his head to the side, hair slipping across his forehead. "And, before you freak out, this isn't shady business I'm getting you into. We're on the right side of the law here."

Alistair let out a mirthless chuckle, "Like using disorientation spells is the right side of the law? And attacking me for catching you?"

"You...have a point," the mage shrugged. "I do what I have to do, our business is full of corruption. We've managed to keep things clean by dealing with threats directly."

"And what, exactly, is your business?"

"Swords for hire, mostly. The man in charge is selective, he only wants trustworthy fighters and those whose skills in stealth and subterfuge can make our operations work like..._well_. Like magic!"

He smiled, a flash of white in the dark.

"Mercenaries," the word tasted foul on Alistair's tongue. They'd done work like that during the Blight, the extra gold earned going towards higher quality armor, better weapons and the food needed to feed their small army of companions. Brand had even accepted a few contracts from the Antivan Crows, mostly to undermine Loghain and Howe's efforts. He'd not raised any sort of opposition to this; they were living in a grey area and, as long as it stayed misty grey and not, say, _charcoal_ he was willing to do what needed to be done.

But his only needs now were a bed and food for just himself- one man who hadn't eaten much at all since his life had ended. _Wow, Alistair. Dramatic much?_ He shook his head quickly and took a step forward, something having been decided between remembering and self-chastising.

"You don't have to say yes now," the mage turned just as Alistair reached him and they fell into step beside one another. "Just talk to Flip. You can even stay at our compound for the evening. The accommodations aren't spectacular, but it's clean and secure."

Things fell into place with surprising ease. Within an hour he was agreeing with Flip, whose broad, beaming face and easy manner had won him over immediately, that new armor would be a good thing. Not long after he was settling into sleep and wondering over the sudden shift in his fortune.

Four months later, hungover and confused, he still wouldn't have it any other way.

Well, except _maybe_...Brand's face appeared and he blinked hard to block her out.

"Are you remembering?" Gob leaned over, his elbows on his knees as he glanced back towards their driver. He moved a little closer to Alistair, voice dropping to avoid being overheard. "We have to get to Grandhaven tonight and our horses got 'stolen.'"

Alistair felt his face twist in confusion as a complicated plan attempted to untangle itself for his better understanding. While he thought, Gob looking on expectantly, the wheel beneath him went into a deep rut which jolted the entire wagon. He was sent flailing sideways, the world growing blurred and indistinct in front of him.

It took him a moment to find his way back upright and it was a struggle to clearly see, his vision still uncertain and wavy at the edges.

And Gob was, oddly enough, just..._gone_.

Stomach lurching, he pressed his palms hard against his eyes as if they were being punished for their betrayal, for taking away his new friend and so suddenly.

Trying again, Gob remained disappeared. Alistair was also not in a wagon, but rather seated comfortably on the back of a coach stopped along an unfamiliar road that ran along the coast.

"Andraste's ass, Fiona," that was Brand, and the sound of her voice made Alistair's stomach literally heave. "How many mugs of cider did you let him have?"

Alistair leaned over the side of the coach opposite of where everyone would be and allowed himself the relief of retching, the taste of whiskey mixed with cider, stomach acid and _what the fuck did I do to make myself feel this way?_ up there with darkspawn blood on the list of things that no human should ever know.

"Alistair?" Brand sounded far closer than he wanted her to be and there was a definite concern in the way she said his name. "Bryce, go with Anders and stay right beside him. I swear, I should just let you go out the window while we roll down the road..._No_, don't look at me like that. I was _joking_. That will _never_ _happen_"

She appeared a moment later looking beyond wary, as if Alistair were a docile dog with an unpredictable vicious streak. This changed the moment the wind picked up and blew back the stench of his vomit, her head ducking as if she could hide from something that was suddenly all around them.

"That is the foulest..." she gagged."I think you may have tainted the ground with that stuff. I'm surprised the grass isn't on fire."

Alistair stared. There were things in his memory that were starting to regroup beyond the past few minutes, and past the dream he'd been having before he'd awakened, to show him the worst of himself and..."What did I _do_?"

This was a whisper, and a panicked one. He licked at his lips, his tongue coated with sour that did little more than make him want to repeat his assault on the ground. Brand's expression hardened, her eyes darkening, and it was perhaps the angriest he'd ever seen her be on account of him.

"You got what you wanted," her tone was flat. "Even if you weren't awake to see it happen."

With that said, she thrust a skin towards him and he took it without hesitation. The water was lukewarm but it washed away some of that _taste_ and settled his stomach enough that he was able to fight back a second urge to vomit. Still, his mind was winding itself around a few images that he wished he could erase: Brand looking shocked and sad on the pier as he stomped off, the open desperation on Anders' face as he struggled to protect what Alistair had come to realize was very much his family. And then there was Bryce's green eyes, wide with fear and shame and Alistair had just kept _pushing_...

"Knock me out," he pushed the skin back into Brand's still outstretched hands.

"Pardon?"

"_Knock me out,_" he swallowed hard, the effects of the water already diminishing as another swell of self-loathing churned the unstable contents of his gut. "Just...just _do_ it, ok?"

Face serious, she summoned Anders as the mage emerged from a grove of trees, Bryce skipping at his side and the cat trying to wind its way between his ankles.

"What?" This was short, and his eyes darted angrily towards Alistair.

"Alistair has requested the services with which you provided him earlier," Brand spoke carefully and they both looked down at Bryce, who was now bearing the brunt of Pounce's affection as the cat pushed at the backs of his knees in an effort to knock him off-balance.

"Right," Anders kneeled in front of the child. "So, _Bryce_. Alistair wants me to make him go to sleep. Since he asked and since there is _nobody else around_, I am going to go ahead and make him sleep."

Bryce nodded furiously, "Because he asked."

"Because he asked, and _there is nobody else around_," Anders found his feet, his serious _I'm the teacher face_ was replaced with something much more _I really don't mind this at all_ as he turned to Alistair.

It was familiar now- the flare of light that preceded a dull jolt that caused every muscle in Alistair's body to tense slightly just as the world went dark around him and he was returned to a place where he wasn't _quite_ so far gone.

* * *

Grandhaven was an actual city, one that bustled about the market district and offered much cover for two mercenaries looking for their stolen horses.

There was a man here named Cromwell who Gob had worked with on previous jobs. Cromwell owned nearly all of the storefronts in Grandhaven and rented them out to merchants, both local and those who traveled between towns. He took a percentage of their profits which, for some reason, were steadily dwindling despite business being up from previous years.

According to their contacts in Wycome, they were looking for a group of men who ran scams on the local shopkeeps, staging robberies and instilling in them a sense of panic. Then, once the merchants were almost soiling themselves in fear over losing their livelihood, they'd be offered protection in exchange for a straight cut of any money earned.

Refusing the service, once presented, never ended well for the merchant.

Their targets had rented rooms at the Blackwell Tavern and the proprietor kept a back room closed off so they could eat, meet and gamble together while remaining isolated. The only outsiders they allowed in were of the accommodating female persuasion and, since Flip had no accommodating females he wished to endanger on this job, Gob had come up with a better plan to get in.

It was a plan that required Alistair to be at the Tavern just as the dinner crowd was diminishing, smelling like whiskey and just making an absolute _ass_ of himself.

He was actually pretty good at that by now.

A wench came by the corner of the room where he sat alone, her dark eyes and complexion marking her as Rivaini. She was lovely, petit yet buxom, and there was more than a small amount of interest radiating from her. As she replaced his half-full mug of ale with another her shoulders lowered far more than necessary to offer an unobstructed view down her bodice and the perfectly shaped and unfettered breasts contained therein.

Alistair was mostly uninterested but he leered anyway; he needed to seem like _that_ sort of man. As she turned away, a smile curving her wine-colored lips, his hand struck out and found itself full of her curvaceous backside.

This _was_ too bold, just as he'd hoped. The wench spun around, eyes narrowing in rage that grew tenfold when she saw Alistair smirking at her.

Fortunately for him, she knew her place in the establishment and she stalked off without a word. Other patrons offered disgusted glares that made him simultaneously ashamed and confident; all he needed was for his behavior to be believable. He stood and teetered towards the back room, pushing belligerently past a large guard positioned by the door. His insolence caught the man by surprise, and Alistair was able to duck by before any weapons could be drawn, his feet deceptively quick beneath him as he faux-stumbled into a wood-paneled room containing about twelve men, most of whom who looked as armed and dangerous as any he'd ever met in his life.

"_Hey_," he tottered back unsteadily. "Which one'a you guys took my _horse_?"

They were all staring at him with disbelieving eyes, probably wondering what kind of suicidal fool would crash their gathering.

_Me_, Alistair thought as he drew his sword with one hand, fumbling it in the process and placing his palm dangerously low on the hilt so that it wavered in front of him. A child could disarm him with a well-placed smack, any of these men could open him up within seconds and not be touched in the process.

"Is that thing even real?" A wiry young man in an elaborately embroidered tunic stood and pushed at the flat of the blade, and Alistair almost _actually_ dropped it _and that would be _bad. He managed to keep his grip and shifted his weight so he could awkwardly elbow at the young man.

This was the point at which everyone was supposed to see him as being no more of a menace than any drunk off the street. Gob knew they'd be arrogant and, as they sank back into their cushioned chairs and began regarding him with amused contempt, Alistair realized how right his friend had been.

The next step was a bid, an offer to gamble for the return of his horse. The horse was beside the point, his real goal was time spent with these men, a sense of who they were and how they interacted with one another. And, if they attacked him, Gob would be back with a more men in a few weeks to just outright finish them off rather than their current, more _subtle_ approach.

"You're expendable, kiddo," Gob called him that as if Alistair were his son and not, quite possibly, his senior. "But we always hope it doesn't come to losing a good man."

_A good man_. They called him that almost as often as they asked him how he'd gotten himself free from the Chantry, his response something about being the ward to a nobleman who needed an heir.

If they didn't believe him, they never let on.

But none of _that_ was important to Alistair in that back room in that inn in Grandhaven. What _was_ important was knowing where everyone else was at all times, how they held themselves both in repose and as they tensed at his approach. Most important, though, and _dreadfully_ unfortunate for Alistair _and_ Gob's careful plan was a portrait that leaned against the wall near where he was instructed to sit, a large painting awaiting a frame and someone to hang it.

At first it seemed inconsequential, like any number of portraits in any number of taverns. Then he realized that there was a dragon involved, its aubergine body piled to provide a backdrop for the conquering figure at its front- a tall, slender figure in elaborate silver plate armor. It was _woman_ even, one with long dark hair and _this makes absolutely no sense_ eyes that leapt like green fire from a face as beautiful and determined as any Alistair had ever seen.

Brand was not _that_ beautiful, but the _eyes_ were perfect.

He realized too late that his behavior, standing and gaping at the Savior of Ferelden, was incredibly _suspicious_ and it was the scrape of chairs pushing themselves away from tables that alerted him to the predicament rushing towards him with blades drawn.

The first strike caught his upper arm, and it was a weak blow by the small man who'd mocked his sword. Alistair, hand easily finding its proper place on the hilt, retaliated with his shoulder, a solid block against the unsuspecting man's chest as his left hand slid alongside his stomach to bury his hidden dagger in the assailant's side.

The man fell, surprise etched on his features, and Alistair had little more than seconds to regroup as three more guards approached, all of them wary as they realized that they'd been truly fooled by his bumbling ass routine.

Alistair was glad he'd at least managed _that_.

They came at him in turn, none of them accustomed to fighting three on one or even in pairs when faced with a capable opponent. All strong, none of them had Alistair's quick feet or ability to dodge attacks in such a way that he not only kept his balance but was able to counter immediately. Brand had spent countless hours teaching him these things, and he could almost imagine her beside him, her blades a crimson blur as she breathlessly tore through the enemy as if they were no more than aged parchment, already frail and waiting to crumble at her touch.

He assumed, for a moment, that thinking about her might make him falter, but he could hear a voice in the back of his head shouting commands at him as he maneuvered himself just out of the range of their weapons and took advantage of every gap in their defense.

It was not a short fight, nor an easy one. But he'd already dropped seven of them on his own when Gob appeared out of nowhere, his hands immediately moving to cast a spell that would disorient the rest so Alistair could finish with less resistance.

Then it became physically easy, his movements efficient as he moved from man to man and only had blood spray to avoid.

"All of them?" There were two left, both slack-jawed and unarmed. Gob considered the question, his eyes gone strangely dark as he regarded Alistair with newfound intensity. He then nodded and Alistair did as instructed, the final pair finding the floor as Alistair himself collapsed in one of the newly vacated chairs.

As he sat there, his fingers reflexively tensing and releasing around the hilt of his freshly coated sword, he couldn't help but notice that Brand's portrait had not escaped untouched- a splattering of crimson across her chest spread upward to her cheek.

That was more like it.

Again, caught off guard, he didn't realize Gob was still there and watching him until he heard the other man whisper, his voice hushed with awe, "Who _are_ you, exactly?"

Alistair took one last look at the portrait, Brand's eyes burning into him the way they had a hundred times before, over quarry and over dinner and over their own naked and entwined bodies. Now they burned in victory over a dragon she'd slain without him. A voice came, one that was close but not quite hers:

_Tell him _exactly_ what you are, Alistair. Tell him what you did, what you left _her_ to do on her own._

"I'm nobody," Alistair tore his gaze from the painting and focused on Gob. "And _definitely_ expendable."

* * *

Flip was not unhappy with them when they returned, pockets full of their usual fee and some loot taken to bolster Flip's coffers.

He was, however, curious to hear how exactly Alistair had defeated that many men on his own. They'd been watching him, he knew, and he'd been holding back all this time. It wasn't just templar training that made him so effective a killer; his year on the road with Brand fighting darkspawn and bandits had taught him far more than his training as a knight.

Duncan had warned him about her from the outset. He had told Alistair that she was a fearless fighter, almost reckless in her overconfidence. What Duncan had _failed_ to mention was that she had no reason to live anymore, her family left for dead in Highever, and this pushed her from _fearless_ to outright _suicidal_. If she didn't have such impeccable reflexes, such control over her movements and such speed behind her, she would have died a hundred times in the Kocari Wilds alone.

Over the year she'd taken plenty of injuries, wounds that she shrugged off and ignored until Morrigan or Wynne sat her down to dress them with much huffing and eye-rolling, but she was mostly just incredibly _efficient_ in a way that he hadn't learned to be as a templar. Templars were all control and immediate focus, Brand taught him to be loose yet graceful and to use his lean frame to his advantage when confronting men and beasts who carried more weight in bulk and armor. It was training received at all hours of the day, in the midst of an endless battle, and he didn't think he could ever forget the things he'd learned from, echoing as they did in his muscles.

He thought about telling Flip this, about his stint in the Wardens and his role in Brand's success against the Blight. Instead he shrugged and claimed to be a natural.

"Whatever you say, kiddo," Gob had been listening in the corner, feet up on the table and a bowl of walnuts in his lap. "We'll get your secrets out of you one day."

The portrait arrived a week later and was set at the foot of Alistair's bed as he slept. The blood had been wiped away but a stain remained that cast Brand's face in maroon and muted some of her beauty. Alistair wanted to burn it at first, but Gob insisted that he'd paid quite a bit in coin to placate the tavern owner.

"Besides, I thought you'd like it," he was perched on the windowsill next to Alistair's bed. "She is quite lovely, don't you think?

The word _lovely_ sounded artificial coming from Gob, who seemed to view most people in terms of usefulness. But Alistair was too distracted by _her_ to get the implication.

"You're Fereldan, are you not? The ward of a nobleman, yes?" Gob leaned forward, his tapered hands folding neatly in his lap as he put pieces together like a spoken puzzle. "I've heard tell that she," he lazily tilted his chin towards the painting, "was _also_ nobility. Did you happen to know her?"

"Why do you ask?" Alistair kept his voice neutral, which was just as much of a giveaway as if he would have allowed himself to sound suspicious or defensive.

"Well, and I hope to keep this between just you and I," Gob looked down at him and offered a conspiratorial smirk that did nothing to set Alistair's nerves at ease. "Flip is looking to turn on us, and I'd like to stop him."

"Turn on us?" There was nothing in Flip's manner to suggest such a thing could be possible. Besides approving contracts and debriefings, he mostly just handled his accounts. From what Alistair could see his company was as clean as Gob had claimed it to be when he first asked Alistair to join. "I…don't see how that's possible."

Gob shrugged, "You sound surprised, but keep in mind that you're just muscle. There's much, much more that goes on outside of this place, and I get to handle most of it. As it turns out, the situation in Grandhaven was not a local scam and there are some powerful people demanding to know what happened. Flip would rather keep us safe, I'm certain, but he's not smart enough when the pressure's on. He's going to make us out to be rogues who were too greedy and _then_ we'll have big, fat targets painted on us."

Alistair felt his jaw clench. This actually made sense; he'd been waiting for fallout from his mistake and it seemed entirely reasonable that someone would have to answer for it. However, to make it out to be something deliberate was _dangerous_.

"Couldn't he just…tell them it was an accident? These things happen, and he wouldn't have to name names," he felt hopelessly naïve just asking and Gob confirmed it with a twisting of his lips.

"Flip is a nice guy, but he's looking out for himself, kiddo," he frowned thoughtfully. "And I have to do the same. This is why I need to know if there's anything that _you're_ not telling me. I'm going to do what I can to help you for now but, if your past comes a haunting, I can't promise I won't leave you waving in the wind."

The words were refreshingly honest and Alistair appreciated the fair warning more that he'd appreciated anything in ages. _If only Brand had been so considerate. _It loosened something tight within him and the story started coming before he'd realized a decision had been made to tell it.

As he gave Gob the highlights of his life prior to the Free Marches, touching on everything but the depth of the wound caused by Brand's betrayal, he felt as if he was breathing for the first time in months. Gob's brows remained drawn down in sympathy as a simple explanation turned into an outpouring.

"Do you think that the Wardens will come after you for desertion?" It was the only question Gob asked.

Alistair considered it for a moment, then shook his head.

"The Wardens don't worry about deserters because a Warden is…" he wanted to say _tainted_, and he wanted to share _those _secrets, too. But those were not his alone so he continued lamely, "A Warden doesn't swear fealty to a person, or a country. And…_she_ won't send anyone after me, I know it."

That was all Gob needed to hear, his face brightening in a smile as he pushed away from the window and went towards the door.

"I'll get back with you later. I need to figure out how to best handle this. If I were you, I'd not go out for the next couple of days. You're safer here," he rapped against the doorframe for emphasis. "Wish me luck!"

Alistair did so silently, settling back against the rough wooden headboard of his bed and turning his gaze back to Brand b_ut not Brand_. There was a familiar mixture of anger and desire pooling in his stomach as he stared at her and thought, for the millionth time, of all the things they'd done together and how, in the end, none of it had mattered.

What did matter, though, were how the memories felt pressing down against him. The face around them was not right, but the _eyes_ were too perfect. Alistair focused on them, full of strength, anger and light, and he imagined them inches away from his own eyes, while her mouth was even closer and their bodies already joined.

It wasn't the first time he'd given in to the urge to take himself to the echo of her on and around him, but he'd never handled it with such intensity- his head pushing back hard against his pillow and his stomach drawn almost painfully tight before things went blessedly slack with release. Finishing with a moan that escaped past his bit lip, his hand fell away and he lost himself to the ache of pleasant memories that meant nothing and how those looked against his faint hope that things might be getting better.

* * *

He awoke with panic surging through his veins like the rush of _wrong_ when a group of darkspawn approached in the night.

It was _time_, he realized. That moment in his life when his foolish trust caught him by the throat and drove needles into his heart, leaving them to rust and ruin him. _Again_.

_Gob betrayed me to the bounty hunters_. And how he knew _this _while he was flat on his back in a bed was well beyond him, as the bounty hunters hadn't even made it to his _door_ yet, much less tried to capture him.

_You escape with your life_, Alistair tried to sit upright, the way the room spun around him turning everything into a battle for mere inches gained. The light was the worst, the way it broke into his eyes, diminishing vision rather than doing...what it was supposed to do.

_There should be no light, your lamp went missing that morning_. He heaved a breath and grabbed his head, palms going over his eyes to make it so there _was_ no light, so things were more like how they were supposed to be that night.

_But this night is _not_ that night. _

A hand touched his bare arm, cool and soft. He thought of the men who had burst in on him sleeping, partially exposed, and how he was barely able to do more than slur a surprised "Whatzit?" before he was pulled into the hallway and beaten to within an inch of his life. They wanted him alive but he was a filthy coward, more than deserving of their ceaselessly hammering fists and violent kicks.

He jerked in the bed, his hands finding the sheets and twisting hard into them. His fingers could have snapped off of his hands and it would still not be hard enough to distract him from the pain that was swelling within him, misery vast and palpable that pushed at his skin until he couldn't take it anymore and he cried out, a heartbroken bellow into a room that should be dark and empty, save a man and his ghosts.

It was the golden light that saved him, flowing from where the hand was touching his arm to spread across and beneath his skin, sinking into flesh, muscle and bone. It drew the pain into its core and, as _it _disappeared, everything else went with it.

The second flare was dimmer but _it_ lingered, caressing him and eradicating the things he'd been expecting to see when he awoke. It slowed his heart, perhaps even mending it a bit, and the air he took in felt clean, clear and _safe_.

_He_ felt safe. Safer than he had in years, safe inside a halo of calm _everywhere_.

His eyes opened, his mind finally ready to see what they saw.

She was sitting next to him, the silver in her black hair catching the lamplight and her dark eyes reflecting warm orange as tears that she wasn't allowing to fall filled them.

_Fiona is beautiful_, and his heart could not ache at this revelation because of the _calm_. He saw Brand's face as it had looked on the pier as she flicker-smiled and then said the most unbelievable thing...

_She's your mother._

"My mother was a maid," he whispered this, his voice broken in the air between them. "She died when I was young."

Brand had looked so hopeful because she believed the words she was saying and she knew...she knew better than _anyone else_ how desperately he'd wanted a family, _any_ family.

"That was a lie," Fiona's eyes closed and the tears trickled from beneath the lids to trace down her pale cheeks. Alistair stared and it was _impossible_ to imagine that he'd come from her. But if she wasn't his mother, if he wasn't her _son_, then she was practically a stranger, and strangers didn't sit next to someone who deserved nothing, much less try to save them with calm.

And they didn't cry like this, the way she was.

"But _this_ is true," it was a simple statement of fact that not even her powerful magic could make hurt any less. "That _you're_ my...mother."

"Yes," she swallowed hard, but her voice did not waiver. "I am."

All he could do was nod and then turn his gaze towards the ceiling. As much as he'd wanted this, his whole _life_ wanted this, his heart was still as broken as it had been ten minutes ago.

"I don't think it matters anymore," he said this more to himself than to her. "I don't think I have it in me to care."

"I understand completely," she kept her hand resolute on his arm, the weight of it confirming everything she'd said so far.

After a time he drifted back into a deep and fretful sleep while she maintained her vigil beside him, the curtain lifted between them seemingly having changed nothing at all.


	33. Upside Down

**Note from SurelyForth: **Short update today for a transitional chapter (of transition).

* * *

He was moving against her in the dark, their bodies forced together by the cocoon of sheets and blankets they'd wound around themselves in a fit of post-coital silliness. In the still blackness, her skin turned liquid from the heat generated between them, she could have been hanging upside down from the ceiling and not realized it. All she knew from anything was the way his hand had somehow winnowed its way down to slid between her thighs, parting them slightly as he pressed himself into her for what might very well be the twentieth time that night.

_Maker, I'm going to have to be _carried_ out in the morning._ Her back arched automatically and she heard herself gasp in approval as strong hands enveloped her breasts, followed by a white hot tongue that flicked hard against her tender throat. Her fingers found themselves running up muscular arms and across broad shoulders, her mind filling in that which eyes could not see; every inch of him being placed into memory so that, eventually, all she would need were hands to identify him.

"I love you so much," he was speaking directly into her skin, the vibrations of voice filling her with sentiment and his thrusts grew faster as the tightening of her arms around him fed his need. "I want to be with you _forever_."

Normally she'd be able to hand over her emotions at this point, to push them away and focus only on the building surge of pleasure, to give her mind completely over to the physical. This, though, was almost _cruel_. To both of them.

"Alistair," he brought his lips to hers and his tongue seemed to be trying its best to stop her from saying more, because her tone was not such that _I love you, too_ or _forever with you sounds wonderful_ would be the next things she said. "You know that's not possible."

His response was...unexpected, his mouth pushing harder, _painfully hard_ as his head forced hers back against a pillow that wasn't there and her head cracked against a cold stone floor. She tried to say something, that he was hurting her and she _knew_ he never wanted to _hurt_ her, but she couldn't speak because there were hands on her throat, a broad thumb pressing against her windpipe and even her fists were useless against a man who still wore much of his armor as he rubbed against _her_, helpless and naked and

"That's more like it," the guard's voice was deep and ugly against her ear and the breath that came with it reeked of vinegar and mold. "I was told you were a fighter, but I was starting to think you were going to _disappoint_ me."

The hand tightened around her throat and, for a moment, she was dizzy on the precipice of unconsciousness.

"No!" she brought her knee up with a jerk that spasmed throughout her entire body and forced her into greater awareness. It was awareness of being _awake_ in comforting arms, of being held against a well-known body and of the radiating warm relief of healing against places on her throat that had been fervor-bruised earlier in the evening.

"_Anders_," she buried her fingers in his hair as a world gone momentarily and entirely wrong settled back into familiarity. Still she started to tremble as a memory, perhaps the most personal moment of fear that she'd experienced in her entire life, lingered and was only mostly eradicated when Anders kissed her, wordlessly conveying something inexhaustible and _safe_.

"I didn't mean to _scare_ you," he moved them so that they were settled on their sides, stomach to stomach. She felt tears slide across her nose and cheeks and he found them, too, making a sympathetic noise."Are you all right?"

And she didn't know what to say, really, because nothing had even _happened_ besides a few seconds of _fear_ at being so vulnerable, a culmination of all the dangerous situations she'd been in over the past year finding her battered and naked on the floor of her cell in Fort Drakon while a guard who was _supposed_ to be easily overpowered proved a little more capable than she'd expected.

There was also the whole dreaming about Alistair_ thing, _and how she'd went from _him_ to so _vulnerable_ was not something she wanted to think about too hard.

"I'm fine, just a bad dream," she inched closer and positioned her knee so that her leg was thrown over his, the feel of his skin against the inside of her thigh unexpectedly electric. It was a worthwhile distraction; he resumed his work on her neck _Fiona is going to give us so much grief for this_, magic illuminating them in pulses of violet-blueand after a few moments of her entirely unsubtle summons, her hips twisting forward against him, he laughed.

"You know, I'm going to have to _carry_ you out of here," his voice was warm with drowsy lust and his fingertips were tracing lazily down her side. "If we can even be convinced to _leave_."

"Seeing how we couldn't even bother to get back into the bed, I'd say that's a fair concern," she thought of how they'd ended up on the floor in the first place, of another night spent together and _happy_, happy despite the utter clusterfuck that their lives had become. She poked his chest. "Being with you is awesome."

For a long moment there was nothing but silence, nothing to indicate that Anders had heard it, or understood the underlying meaning which was something like: _I love you so much and I want to be with you forever_. Only not cruel.

"You're just _saying_ that because you're half-asleep," his hand found her cheek in the darkness and she pressed into his palm. "Either that or you just asked me to _marry_ you."

It was a joke, of course, and borderline cruel, in a way. But there was something about the way it didn't flow between them like a joke but rather hung in the space between their lips.

"I'm starting to think that _you_ don't think much of my ability to be eloquent," she paused, the words that followed bright on her tongue. "Either that or you've been waiting on a question that I haven't been asking."

"I would _never_," but he didn't specify which he would _never_ and she reached up to catch his face between her hands. He wasn't smiling. "Would _you_?"

"Yes," she shook her head and her heart started flailing beneath her breast. "Wait, what?"

"You're ineloquent, by your own admission, and waiting for a question not asked," he turned and kissed the inside of her wrist. "Whereas _I_ would never do either, insinuate that you are anything less than the most stirringly loquacious woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing _or_ wait for a question not being asked. Or make someone wait, had I the question for which they were waiting."

"You just accused me of being rambly," she mocked his kiss, catching his thumb between her teeth and pressing down lightly. "And I'm still upside down on the other."

"_Brand_...come on," he gently shook her. "It's simple enough- _yes_ or _no_. Why you make these things hard on yourself, I will _never_ know."

"You do realize that I..." she was going to say _was_ _the worst wife ever_, but that was her head being an ass. Her heart was racing, flying away with sense and reason and _it's only been, like, a week_ until all she could think of was the night he walked her to her room after Bryce was born and how she couldn't say what she had _wanted_ to say then. Now, though, she _could_- one syllable to convey what he meant to her and how grateful she was for his _everything_. Even if _improbable_ became _impossible_, he would at least know how much she wanted this."_Yes_."

He was smiling, her hands told her, and she smiled back in the darkness as he took her and forever because, everything else be damned, they had wasted enough time already.

* * *

Morning found Brand alone on the floor in a pile of blankets and Anders somewhere on the other side of the room singing not entirely under his breath. Despite a marked lack of rest, she popped up easily and saw that he was in the corner bath, head practically submerged and feet propped on the end of the basin.

"There's room for two, you know," he didn't even look over.

"I thought the objective for these things was to get clean," she crawled away from the blankets to the edge of the tub, her hand dipping tentatively below the water's surface. Her face must have registered surprise at its warmth, knowing as she did that it was drawn early the evening before.

Anders laughed and flicked water in her face, "One of the perks of being with a mage- no more cold baths. Or, you know, _always_ cold baths. If you're into that."

"Not at all," she twisted her hair up from where it was tangled against her back and climbed in, the surround of heat immediately loosening tight muscles in a pleasurable release as she reclined back, her head at Anders' feet. "Too bad there's not really time to enjoy this."

He nodded in reluctant agreement, although his hand was moving along her leg.

"We should arrive in Highever tomorrow afternoon," Brand sighed as _Highever _set in. She genuinely looked forward to seeing her brother. Even if he was angry, and anger was entirely possible in the face of _Alistair_ and Eamon's death, just being able to talk everything out with him would help her make sense of it all. And he was solace, too, in uncertainty- his very existence a comfort even at a distance.

What she dreaded, though, was the place itself. She'd realized at some point last year that she would never be ok within the walls of Castle Cousland. The dwarves said that stone had memory and, for her, that idea was distilled to its core in her childhood home. No matter how much Fergus tried to change things, and he'd spent the past five years changing practically everything but the walls themselves, she still felt it- a visceral echo of the brutal tearing of her life away from her and her own, instantaneous, transformation into something just as brutal. _Brutal and broken and empty and deathwish having._

"Hey, no crying," Anders' foot bumped against her cheek. "I'm trying to dry your eyes, by the way. I'm not, you know, attempting to poke your eye out with my toe."

"Because eye stuff freaks you out," she smiled, setting aside her Highever concerns to focus on getting clean.

"_Exactly_. It touches me that you remembered."

They finished quickly, with minimal frolicking, and resisted the call of their nest of blankets on the floor as the cool air of the room hit their wet skin. Brand dried off and pulled on the dress she'd worn the day before, throwing her old undergarments in her pack and buckling it closed. She noticed the corners of Anders' mouth twist up when she did this.

"What?" Fingers moving efficiently, she was able to pull her laces tight and knotted them in a neat bow at the small of her back.

"Nothing...just thinking, is all," from the gleam in his eyes, his thoughts could use a fresh bath of their own. "And certainly not noticing what you didn't put on just now."

The sound of a nearby door slamming kept her from responding and they gathered their belongings in silence.

"Are we ready?" she gave the room a final sweep with her eyes and, when they returned to him, Anders was only inches away.

"Here," he was holding a length of fabric- a silk scarf with elaborate designs in blue and green. "I meant to give it to you in Amaranthine, but you were all _shot through with an arrow_ and poisoned. And then...everything _else_ happened and it somehow slipped my mind."

Brand took it, immediately struck by the luxurious way it slid through her fingers and how it felt like clear, cold water in her hands.

"It's _beautiful_," the colors were very close to those used for the Cousland family crest, although she doubted that was why he'd purchased it.

"It's not a _ring_," his face was serious, and this was a deliberate reminder of that which they'd discussed in night. "But a ring is so..."

"Traditional? Cliché? _Incredibly unnecessary_?" Brand was already using the scarf to tie her hair away from her face.

"Something like that," he smiled, the clear relief in his eyes _as if he could do this wrong_ turning to bemusement as he looked her over. "Your neck is still a mess," his knuckles brushed along her throat before he spun her around, loosening her hair and then pulling some of it back to secure with the scarf, the rest allowed to fall free around her shoulders. "This way I won't have to answer to _Bryce_."

"Bryce might actually be able to kick your ass at this point," he pressed against her in agreement and she could feel his mouth warm against her crown. With her hand on the door, she was a bridge between the clusterfuck on the other side and the _awesome _they'd established here and together. She moved forward, undiluted happiness giving way as she braced for reality. "Of course, that's if he got any rest. What do you want to bet he slept all of two hours last night?"

"That's a sucker's bet if I ever heard one! We _both_ know it's true," he reached past her and they opened the door together, unsurprised to find everyone but Alistair waiting for them. Bryce was the very picture of a child who'd not minded any concept of _bedtime_ as he stumbled sleepily to wrap his arms around her legs.

"_Brand_," he spoke in a whisper and crooked his finger at her. After she'd knelt to his level, he moved his mouth close to hers and spoke as quietly as he could. "Fiona was mean to me."

Her eyes darted to where the elf was sitting in the furthest corner of the room, still and blank. Brows drawing together in concern, Brand brushed Bryce's hair back and planted a quick kiss on his forehead.

"She had a bad night, pup. I'm sure she didn't mean to hurt your feelings," he nodded, placated by this for the moment. "Have you eaten anything this morning?"

He shook his head and Anders took the cue, scooping Bryce up and throwing him, squealing in delight, over his shoulder.

Brand remained on her knees, thinking of how best to approach Fiona, or if she should approach Fiona _at all_. Nathaniel and Sigrun were on the far side of the room, talking quietly over their porridge. Well, they _had _been talking quietly. Now they were teasing Bryce about his cousin Norah who would be bossing him around by dinnertime the next day.

It was a long hesitation, and a decision was made for her in the interim: the door to Alistair's room opening slightly and her name carried out on a ruined voice.

"_Brand_..."

She stood immediately and looked towards Anders, who was animatedly explaining the politics of gender or _something _she should be moderating, seeing as Bryce was hanging on every word. Instead she welcomed the distraction and slid quickly into Alistair's room, carefully shutting the door behind her and closing off her emotions, lest this was another way he meant to get back at her.

It was dark in his chamber, the only light from a nearly spent candle on the nightstand. At the center of the room was Alistair, dressed and looking almost like a respectable person. Only his expression gave him away, his face immutably sad and his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he stared at her.

"Brand," he licked his lips. "I _know_ now."

She didn't need to ask what it was he knew.

"I wished I could have believed you in the first place," his mouth moved in silence for a few seconds. "I wish that I would have just _believed_ you."

"I do, too, Alistair," her voice was cold, far more so than she'd expected it to be. "But you didn't. And you're going to say you're sorry for what you did..."

He nodded slowly.

"And I can't...I _can't_ forgive you," she squared her shoulders, remembering with terrible clarity Bryce's face during the confrontation and she'd been so guilty for what _she'd_ done to _Alistair_, that it had become _almost _alright that her son was there for _that_. Anders was right, Bryce was innocent and Alistair had no right to hurt either of them, no matter how much he might feel justified in hurting _her_. "Not for what you did to Bryce, not for the way you made him _feel _and what you made him see _me_ feel."

"I'm sorry for that, too," desperation clung to every syllable, his face twisted in a mask of _I know I screwed up, I know that what I did was the worst thing in the world. _"I'm sorry for _that_ more than anything else."

"Good," there was a clear note of decisiveness in that word. "Hearing you say that makes me more comfortable with you being around him."

Alistair sagged, his shoulders falling several inches as every last bit of hope drained out of him.

"Brand, _please_. I need you to..." he stepped towards her, his trembling hands finding her wrists. "I need you to tell me that you don't hate me for what I did."

"I don't hate you," this was true. "I don't think that I _can_ hate you. Things are bad right now, even without _this_. Things are _terrible _and I can't afford to be falling apart. Not anymore. If that means that I have to harden my heart to you until I _know_ I can trust you to not hurt me or anyone I love again...then I will. I'm sorry, Alistair. It's just what I have to do."

His hands fell from her wrists and he stepped away, his eyes dim now as the tears had stopped coming and the realization that there would be no easy way out of this _mess _settled across him.

"I won't _abandon_ you, Alistair."

"Like I abandoned _you_?" It was out, fast as one of Nathaniel's arrows whizzing by her head in battle. An admission, a gargantuan one that smelled funny, like blood and wet wool. Like the palace before and during the Landsmeet, when she stood with rivulets of sweat and blood running down her cheeks and chose the man who would lose her that who was dearest to her heart.

_But it wasn't Loghain who took Alistair away, and it wasn't _you_ who forced Alistair to leave._

"Yes, Alistair. Like you abandoned _me_."

The door banging shutting behind her as she left him with _that_ was supposed to feel final, like an ending to a long and confusing nightmare.

Instead, as she felt the gazes of her friends and family trained on her, including one gaze that she was absolutely _not_ expecting, she realized that this was one nightmare that might have no end.

"Good morning, my dearest Brandelyn," Zevran was as golden as ever, his hair sun-bleached and his eyes gleaming like molten metal in the common room's lamplight. He was impossibly pristine, although the creases around his eyes had grown even more pronounced in the weeks since they'd last spoken. "I see that things are going as _awesomely_ for you as they ever were."

"My life is a cluster...," Brand started to state the obvious; Sigrun's hands went automatically over Bryce's ears and Zevran's mouth curved in amusement. "My life is completely upside down right now, Zev. And, _Maker_, do I have some questions for _you_."

"Only _you_ would be so bold to say such things," he lowered his chin and his expression turned ominous. "I do hope you know _exactly _what you _need _to ask. Otherwise..."

"Incredibly awesome?" She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth as everything turned to _chill_.

"_Extraordinarily_._"_

_Awesome._


	34. Control

**Note from SF: **So, here we are. Plot.

I must extend thanks to my readers for sticking with _Undertow _as I've been navigating some fairly bleak territory. I know it's been intense and I appreciate all of your awesome feedback. I also need to thank Sandtigress, again, for her invaluable services as my fic therapist and for helping keep my *flail* to a minimum.

And, finally, a thumbs up to Jem for listening to me ramble on about _plot _for the past few days. I'm sure he wishes he'd never played Dragon Age in the first place if it meant he'd be able to eat his dinner without me pestering him about these things.

* * *

Antiva was hot. No, Antiva was _cruelly_ hot, and every day.

Alistair had been sweating non-stop for the past year, ever since he'd first crossed the Antivan border, and it just wasn't because of his current employ _although that is certainly not helping me relax_. He was sweating now, of course, rivulets streaming from his scalp and down his back, soaking through his undershirt and collecting uncomfortably in areas that really did not need the extra moisture.

His partner Nico was an Antivan native. Tall, tan and relentlessly handsome, Nico was always cool. He could be standing in the middle of a brick-paved square at high noon, wearing a wool tunic, wool scarves and drinking dwarven ale by the bucketful and he wouldn't lose a drop of moisture to this thing called "perspiration." Alistair hated him, never more so than when they were in a situation like this:

_Some of our other guys, well, they could not make it. I did not wish to do this, but we need you to keep an eye on this woman. They will be after her soon, and we are being paid for her safety. Do not talk to anyone, keep your head down, do not be stupid. You will be fine._

Now Alistair was standing on the balcony belonging to the mark that they were supposed to protect. Dalila was...not what they were expecting- young, statuesque and gorgeous. Her dark hair was twisted up against her neck and she had gem-colored eyes that danced as she took in her two defenders. Nico reacted to her the way he always did when a potential conquest flitted across his vision- he focused every ounce of his Antivan coolness on his target. It never failed- Antiva was very hot, after all.

For Alistair, however, she was different. Any other time he'd see a beautiful brunette and run to the closest tavern. Dalila caught him off guard; she needed to be saved and she seemed grateful for the service. Both men were welcomed into her apartment, both men were given small glasses filled with amber liquid before being led to the sun-drenched balcony. Nico reflected the light, flirting effortlessly and telling her a million lies.

_..she was younger but not nearly as exquisite as you are, _bellissimo_. Your eyes dance when you smile, and you have the most beautiful smile. I am surprised that the sun dare show itself in your presence, for fear of being overshadowed..._

Meanwhile, Alistair drank his whiskey and sweated.

Hours later, Nico was frustrated with the lack of headway being made with their client. Hands in his honey brown hair, he claimed a need to check the situation on the street. As soon as he was out of the apartment, Dalila was approaching Alistair with measured steps, her gemstone eyes bright as she pulled at his armor. He did not dissuade her, or do more than stare in fascination. From his vantage-point she was the most stunning ghost he'd ever seen and when he found himself being pushed onto her bed, naked and grateful for the chance his skin had to breath, it did not take long to establish a momentum he believed lost to Ferelden.

It was not the same as he remembered, his lovely brunette with her mile-wide smile had possessed a tendency to trade subtlety for need. Dalila was forceful in her approach, but hung back just enough to make Alistair feel as though he was working for it. Dalila also did not grasp him the same way, her hands light against his skin, the rest of her soft but strangely insubstantial as she positioned herself astride him and pumped narrow hips beneath his guiding hands. It was quite a bit like making love to a spirit version of her, a darker shade who cried out in a language he did not know and who collapsed across his damp chest in a cool puddle that nonetheless smelled humid, reminiscent of the tropical flower gardens in Antiva City.

Alistair had no idea if Nico ever came back that night. He spent it with Dalila, saving her the way he'd tried to save another woman once, only this time he knew exactly what he was doing and how badly he would fail in the end. He allowed himself only one brief retreat into illusion, nuzzling the nape of her neck and imagining that when he saw her face again a scar would have suddenly appeared at the corner of her lips and it would be Brand that pulled him into her, and this time he'd feel that need, that urgency, and this time when he bowed his sweat-soaked forehead to her sweat-soaked forehead she would smile her mile-wide smile and say words he still longed to hear and he would reward that mouth of hers with his until everything else disappeared _like it was supposed to_.

Morning found him tangled in a literally foreign bed with a woman who looked far less right in the aftermath of whiskey and doomed yearning for a love lost forever to the whims of a rash pair. He stumbled to find the chamberpot, locating it in a small closet off of the main living space. The process took longer than he'd anticipated and he was half-tempted to tug on his discarded armor as he found it in the floor, to put his job back on. Instead he stumbled back to the bedroom and immediately wished he hadn't.

Blood's bloom was still spreading outward on the pale sheets, like a rose unfurling its petals and, at the center of it, was Dalila's pierced heart. Alistair ran naked to the balcony, desperate to find the assassins out there although he had no idea how _that_ fight would go, as naked and unarmed as he was.

The balcony was, of course, empty.

He pressed against the exterior wall, and slid to the ground without even noticing the way the masonry scraped against his skin. The sweating started and, with it, the frantic heaving of his chest as he tried not to think of what had happened, _what he had allowed to happen_, and how spectacularly he had failed the woman inside who did nothing more to him than remind him of Brand.

It took him several minutes to gather his belongings, to don his armor and say a brief good-bye to a lover he barely knew. He covered her before he parted, and said a brief prayer over her lifeless form. It seemed a hugely empty gesture; if the Maker was paying attention it would be to the anonymous sex and _murder_ and not Alistair's hopeless attempt to keep himself from falling apart.

It was early, but the streets were already coming to life while he stumbled haphazardly across squares and down alleys. His brain felt like a net, everything nuanced sliding right out while big things like _death dead dying you should have been there to stop the dying _Dalila's lifeless form remained trapped.

There was no countering that, even though he'd only stepped out to relieve himself, even though it was Nico who'd really failed.

For several minutes, maybe even hours, Alistair had no idea where he was going until he stood outside of the plain, unmarked storefront where he'd led countless "clients" to meet with his superiors. He hesitated before going in, his mind on his sword and the night he'd just spent with a woman who should have been at his side at that very moment, either here or in a bed.

_Or maybe she's a stand-in, and it was always supposed to be Brand and this is just a trick, a lure, a way to break you forever._

Without realizing it, he was inside. He would turn himself in, happily. He would embrace his punishment, happily. And he would go wherever a man like him could go- the Dark City, probably. Or maybe he'd just roam the Fade forever, and he'd be spoonfed the dreams of his dreams and only occasionally know that it was all a lie.

He missed much as he crept through the front room. Normally there'd be one or two bodies out here, large men with prominent facial scars and a propensity to chew on slender shards of wood. It made them seem lethargic, the slow mashing of their yellowing teeth on splinters. Alistair had seen a few men make that assumption; it was one that inevitably ended with viscera splattered across the walls.

_Antivans,_ he thought with a wryness born from some macabre place, _could sometimes make the darkspawn seem civilized. _

The door to the back opened easily, another sign something wasn't quite right that did little more than fall by the wayside and he saw the three he _did_ want about twenty feet away, standing silhouetted against a large window that was partially shuttered. The contrast of the low lit end of the room where he stood and the sunlight falling in sporadic shafts gave them an ethereal glow.

For a moment, he held down his side of the room and they watched in silence. Ralphio, Maro and Lloyd. They were all in their forties, hardened men who'd struggled to find a place on the wrong side of the law that was still on the right side of the Crows. _In a way._

They spoke in silken tones and told lies to men such as Alistair, men who'd been good once and could easily be convinced that they were doing good again. By the time they found out the _truth_, they were so deep that they could only die or keep on lying to themselves about the _good_, until the line between _good_ and _reality_ became so indistinct that good was completely perverted.

Alistair was somewhere in between. He woke up most mornings and talked himself into believing that some people were helped by his interference, but he'd also become the sort of man who'd sleep with a woman he was supposed to be protecting and allow her die on his watch.

"The client was killed," his admission was greeted with more silence. "The Crows came for her while I relieved myself. I didn't even case her apartment for valuables or gold," that would be the ultimate failure to them. They could have broken even had Alistair returned with pockets full of jewelry and coin.

Stillness and silence reigned the room.

He stepped forward, his hands swinging clear of the swords at his hips.

"I'm not here to fight or plead my case...I just want my punishment," he came to a halt, running his fingers through his hair _it's gotten too long on the top_ and pushing it up. "Whatever that may be, I want it."

There was, at long last, a noise as lamps that had been darkened since his arrival flared and three simultaneous flashes of gold broke against the three silhouettes as disembodied hands came out of the darkness to move in smooth arcs across the three throats, bared, of Ralphio, Maro and Lloyd.

Silence, again, as the blades disappeared into shadow and then the world stopped and restarted to the sight of blood pouring and bodies falling, all caught in dim lamplight and what sun made it through the not quite opened shutters.

No sooner had the dull thuds of flesh impacting wood sounded when a voice spoke from somewhere beyond his newfound freedom:

"The Crows have no use for you, Warden," Alistair's breath caught at that word. He'd not been called _Warden_ in years, and had certainly not felt as a _Warden_ in almost as long. "There are new rules being written by new hands. Master Zevran wishes you away from his Antiva, and _away_ you'll go."

_Zevran_. Now _that_ was even more startling to hear than _Warden_. He almost asked, he almost ran forward to confront the assassins in the shadows, to pull at their hoods to see if one gave way to something familiar, if not missed or loved.

Or maybe Zevran _had_ been missed, his smirk, his stories, the easy way he disarmed the tensest of situations with some dark humor or an uncomplicated entendre.

Alistair had never gotten the opportunity to find out that day, or in the days or weeks that followed. He simply returned to a border town in the Free Marches to drown himself in drink and hopelessness.

Now, however, he had his answer. _Not missed_, as the elf watched him come out of his room in the inn, taking a place at Brand's elbow as if _they'd _just ended a friendly discussion. Zevran had saved his life, he knew, but there was so much thinly veiled hostility in those golden eyes, so much _you hurt someone that I cared about._

"Alistair," he did not bother to hide behind a cordial greeting or disguise the disdain in his voice. "I am...ah..._aware_ of your presence in this room." The corners of his mouth turned up sharply and he lifted his chin in a mocking gesture. "You _are_ most present, yes?"

The only one that looked was Anders, who wore a small grin as Alistair responded with a feeble nod and the slight twisting of his shoulders away from Brand.

Brand looked between the two men, seeing them together throwing into relief how long it had been since they'd all been companions and how _hard_ they'd both become in the interim.

"I think we should get to business," Brand's voice was low and she moved away from Alistair to take a seat at the vacated table. Once Zevran had found a seat, automatically tilting back, arms indolently across his chest, there were two empty chairs. Anders handed Bryce off to Nathaniel and took his place beside Brand. Alistair, looking like he would rather die than participate, found his way to the last chair, remaining at a distance from the table and angled defensively towards Zevran.

Brand had to admit that Alistair seemed far less..._wounded_ than she'd expected him to be after the conversation they'd just had in his room. There was an aura of darkness about him, beyond his obvious discomfort with everything, but gone was the little boy lost from just a few minutes ago.

Despite his relaxed posture, Zevran was watching her intently, his eyes sliding from her own downward towards her neck and then he smiled knowingly, leaning forward to run the back of one hand along her jaw, his knuckles dragging deliberately across her cheek. The other two men with them reacted perfectly to his boldness, Alistair looking away and swallowing hard and Anders not even bothering to hide his self-satisfaction.

Zevran leaned in close to her, his mouth near her ear.

"Was is worth the waiting and the wanting, my dear?"

She turned and their faces were impossibly close as she responded in a bare whisper:

"I could have waited ten more years and the answer would be the same," she pulled away from his touch. "Did you know, Zevran? Did you know what you were leading me into?"

He fell back into his chair, mouth turning down and his posture turning regretful beneath her steady gaze.

"Yes," despite his appearance, this was unapologetic. "I knew I was risking your safety when I approached you. I knew exactly what would happen in Amaranthine, and I even had some idea what might happen after."

"You mean me getting ambushed on the road? And in my home?" Her voice was perfectly even, but she knew her eyes must be getting bright with anger. "Did you know they tried to poison _Bryce_?"

"Yet you all seem no worse for the wear," the concern that pulled at his features belied his attempt to be glib. "I knew you'd survive, my dear. You are the best and you surround yourself with the best."

"Even _the_ _best_ can be caught off guard, Zevran," her hand came down on the table with no small amount of force and Alistair jumped. "It was only timing that spared us, timing and blind luck and _Alistair_."

The elf smirked and turned to Alistair, "This is why you keep him like a sick dog on a leash, yes?"

Alistair's brow lowered dangerously and _Maker_ the entire situation was tense _enough_ without anything happening between the two of _them_.

Brand snapped her fingers to get Zevran's attention back to her.

"Alistair is here for his own safety. I want to know why _you're_ here?"

Zevran's head tilted thoughtfully, once again his attempts to appear playful completely undermined by the gravity in his eyes.

"_Here_ is where I need to be, despite the danger," he smiled the same hard smile he'd offered her a little over a month earlier. "I am acting almost as recklessly as you this morning, Brandelyn, because I would rather you not die for _this_."

Her brain manufactured five responses to this, two of them tart, two of them cold, and only one of them smart. With a clarity of reason that had been missing recently, she went with _smart_.

"And _I_ would rather not die for anything," she drew a deep breath, leaning forward against the table and her eyes never leaving his face. "I just need to know what _this_ is, and I need to know why you dragged me into it and what _I_ can do to get myself _out_."

Zevran mirrored her posture, everything going beyond serious between them.

"_This_ is an attempt by renegade Crows to control Ferelden the way _we_ control Antiva. And I did not drag you in, you made yourself a threat when you agreed to Anora's plan to make Bryce the heir to the throne," Zevran paused to allow _that_ to sink in with everyone, not least of all Alistair. "As for the last? I have no answer, regrettable as that may be. I am awaiting contact from several of my agents. Once I know more, then we can take care of business. Granted, of course, we are both alive. It _would_ be nice, I think."

Brand did not respond for several minutes, thinking as she was about what he'd just told her and trying to parse out memories of the past few years, how recent Landsmeets had been fraught with tension as banns had started to push at Queen Anora for her unwillingness to remarry, how formerly apolitical men were suddenly able to find the right words to say when given the floor, the _words _that caused flickers of panic in Anora's normally clear sapphire eyes and the tiniest of cracks to begin forming in her otherwise flawless facade.

This pressure had been why she's approached Brand in the first place. She needed to placate the banns, to reassure them that she had the heir situation under her control and _before_ they began plotting together and set off a rebellion or, Maker forbid, another civil war.

Part of it was just business as usual, but there was another element that Anora had been fretting over, something nerve wracking that she'd not shared with Brand but that echoed in the grandeur of her offer _anything you want, anything you need,_ something close to desperation from a woman who did not despair.

"How long has this been going on?" It was a question that asked several others- _how long? how widespread? how deeply did this plot run?_ and _how capably was it being administered and from where?_

"It began as soon as you ended the Blight; times of reconstruction are full of openings and opportunities for pioneering individuals to exploit. These renegades thought Ferelden, reeling from war and darkspawn, was primed for infiltration. It is not Antiva, nor will it ever be, but an entire country under their control was enough to allow them to overlook Ferelden's..._shortcomings_."

He said _shortcomings _with measured politeness.

"So, these renegades are former Crows?"

Zevran nodded, "Not openly _former_ of course. Not until I took over and forced their hand. You remember Master Ignacio, do you not? He is their, ah, puppeteer as it were. He lured several promising young Crows to Ferelden during and after the Blight, telling the Master Crow in Antiva that Ferelden was a bustling market for assassins. He was actually infiltrating every noble house in the country."

She nearly choked on the air.

"_Every_ every?" She thought of Laure and Penelope and _how_ _many more are there at the Vigil alone_?

"_Every_," his brows went down. "I told you that I was in Ferelden for months before I came to you. I have been trying to identify as many as I can before I act. There was time, I assumed, but that was before your Eamon summoned Alistair," his eyes went accusingly to Alistair and Brand prickled in defense.

"Alistair had no control over what Eamon did," she chewed her lip for a moment. "I suppose that Eamon contacted Alistair immediately after I told him about Anora's offer."

"You told _Eamon_?" Anders' knee hit hers in protest. _Oh, this is so _not_ the time_. She frowned slightly.

"Bryce was his heir, I _had_ to tell him," she turned back to Zevran before Anders had the opportunity to respond. "So Anora had her heir, which means that the nobles couldn't use _that_ against her. Eamon needs an heir, so he contacts Alistair...who was a threat to them."

Zevran squared his shoulders and laid his hands flat on the table.

"Your agreement with Anora meant stability for the throne, which means that Anora is not as desperate and dependent upon her advisors, some of which are under their control. Alistair could have upset that stability, but in a way that _Ignacio_ could not control. It took years for him to get the banns pushing at your queen, he would not be able to manage their collective reaction to the bastard, not with such short notice. He also could not afford to just kill him outright, that would look so _suspicious_ and cause _another_ situation that he could not control."

"So who took out the contract on Alistair?" Brand asked, even though she knew the answer.

"There was no contract, my dear," Zevran's fingers pushed hard on the wooden surface in front of him, his scarred knuckles going white with the effort. "It was all a ruse to get you to Alistair without you knowing it was him. Ignacio's plan was to stage Eamon's death to look as though he'd been murdered by Alistair, and Alistair dispatched by his guards. When you absconded with Alistair, they were forced to _improvise_."

"_Improvise_? They _butchered_ him!" Her voice was low, as she'd realized that Bryce had perked up a bit at the _Eamon's death_, although he seemed to have not quite understood it as anything that should concern him. "Why kill Eamon at all if Alistair didn't arrive? It seems like they could have blackmailed him instead, if they wanted _control_."

"You ask? You do realize, of course, that there is now a seat of power waiting to be filled, do you not? With Eamon's one heir given to Anora and his replacement never named...it is wide open, yes?"

"_Yes_? No!" Brand pushed away from the table, arms going across her chest as she thought of how to say the next without giving too much away. "Bryce is _still_ the heir; the Landsmeet has not approved Anora's plan for succession. And I was going to turn her down," she dared him with her eyes to ask why.

He didn't.

"This is why they're trying to kill us, then. Bryce interfering with the throne _and _Redcliffe and, after him, I'm the only one with any sort of claim on the arling," she rubbed her neck and this time Anders' knee tapping her own was a gesture of reassurance. "Thank the Maker I'm apparently assassin proof."

Zevran laughed at this, a genuine guffaw that did much to relieve the tension that had tightened the very air around them. With a lazy gesture, he waved to Nathaniel.

"Nathaniel, my friend, would you be so kind as to give your commander the package you so quickly relieved me of upon my arrival?" He smile a quick grin when Nathaniel complied with a withering and disapproving glare for both the elf _and_ Brand, even as she murmured a thank you.

The parcel was a leather bound case with a matching belt secured by a bronze fasten. The animal hide was supple beneath her fingertips. It was a fine product, albeit one splattered with dried flecks of blood and she tried to not dwell on _that_ as she undid the closure and opened the case to expose the contents within.

It was nothing more than letters, correspondences scrawled on all manner and size of parchment. She withdrew a handful and began to read them, not considering what they might be until her mind pulled enough focus to register the intimacy of the words in front of her that gave way to something darker almost immediately...

_There is nothing I would rather be doing, my love, than bringing you to my bed again this evening so that we might be together as we should be, as we __would__ be were there not complications between us. I have found nothing with __him__ that approached the release you provide me, and I'm growing weary of pretending. Every day that passes seems to do so with more excruciating lethargy than the day before and not even having you in my office, or your bed, feels right. Our love deserves its own place, and I am closer than ever before to considering how that might be done._

_Entirely yours,_

_Brand._

"Oh, _Maker_."

The date on it was 25 Solace of last year. Anders had left for an engagement at the Tower a few days later and _Teagan _had been killed within two months: bandits on the road and Brand the only witness.

She flipped back one letter and it was confirmation of her growing fear...

_2 Solace_

_A._

_We need to meet to talk, if we can manage such a thing anymore. All I want is you, to __be__ with you, and I'm starting to care about nothing else- my husband and my son a distant concern to __us__... _

There was no way that she could continue, her fingers trembling as she dug into the parcel to find the rest of the letters, these written in a different hand, from Anders to her, and tucked behind those was a sole envelope, bearing the seal of the Arl of Amaranthine. In her haste, she nearly tore the missive within and, once she read it, she _did_ tear it apart, one clean rip down the middle that did nothing to ease the panic beneath her breast.

It was Zevran who calmed her, one cool hand against her arm.

"It was their Plan A, planted in Eamon's room. We discovered the parcel before anyone who might believe the letters could," he smiled. "Of course, this has only made them intent upon destroying you, emotionally and physically. The letters would have thrown doubt on every claim you or Bryce could place on Redcliffe. You would have to depend on support from the banns and..."

"No bann would support me if they thought I was involved with...Teagan's death," she swallowed hard, the implication of that and...the _other_ painful in her throat.

"_What?_" Anders went for the parcel, and Brand pushed it out of his reach. There was nothing in this world that would let her allow him to see what this fake Teagan had written, words that implicated the both of them in an affair that went well beyond the bounds of infidelity into something sordid, selfish and cruel.

"You would be a pariah, in fact," Zevran poked at the case. "It is what they're hoping to do, still. Nothing else they have done has gained traction; they are running out of options that don't involve..." he made a _stab_ gesture. "Fergus is calling a Landsmeet, do try to look surprised when he tells you, and that gives them a little over a week to do something permanent. If you can survive, and barring anything _outrageous _happening, they should not be able to succeed."

Unthinkingly, Brand turned to Anders, whose expression had to mirror hers.

_Bryce is a mage. How much more outrageous could you get than that? _Her cheeks went pink as her brain answered itself:_ How about the fact that you're _betrothed_ to a mage?_

"Tsk," Zev clucked his tongue. "Complication?"

"Nothing that I can't control," it came out quickly and she balled her hands into fists beneath the table. If ever there was a time for her will to succeed to exert itself, this was it. Although some would call it arrogance, Brand knew that there was very little that could shake her when she truly wanted something.

And now that her torment had a face and a name? There was nothing else she wanted more than to dismantle his dreams the way he'd tried to undo her entire _existence_.


	35. Family

Zevran had, by his own admission, stayed too long.

"You have a rough couple of weeks ahead of you, Brandelyn," he pulled on a cloak that had been carefully folded over the back of an unoccupied settee. "I would have you followed, for you own protection, but my last efforts to such end, well, did not turn out so nicely."

"I didn't accidentally kill them, did I?" Brand tried to recall the recent attacks and she couldn't remember killing anyone who seemed like they were trying to keep her _safe_.

"What a life you lead, my dear, that you can ask such a question," Zevran smiled, a quirk of his lips, and leaned in to brush them against her cheek. "It was your monster, the one you named Botolf."

Ah.

"I'm sorry about that, he thought they were after me," she looked towards Alistair who was watching them with cold eyes. "Would you like your daggers back?"

Zevran considered the offer, then shrugged.

"No need. I have little use for them, to be honest. I gave them to Shema because she found them attractive and I was of a mind to make her happy," he lowered his voice. "I will find you again. Until then, do nothing more than survive. Do not seek out Ignacio; he is not the Archdemon. Cutting off _that_ head will only create five new heads in its place. Not pretty."

"Be careful, Zev," Brand was struggling with how she felt about the things he had told her, beyond extraordinarily angry. Mostly, she didn't know how she was supposed to feel about _him_ at the moment. Still, it behooved her to send him off on friendly terms and hope that she wasn't making a terrible mistake letting him out of her sight.

"You know me better than that," he disappeared through the door. Despite knowing the full futility of the gesture, she poked her head out after him.

He was already air.

She turned to find Anders and Alistair both standing right behind her, one looking almost frantic, the other mildly perturbed.

"Give me the letters," her hand went out and Anders complied, albeit reluctantly.

"What do they say?"

"Nothing that matters," it was the most flagrant lie she'd told in ages. "I'm going to destroy them, anyway, for safety's sake."

"Let's hope they're the only set that exists," he followed her to the fireplace, Alistair on his heels.

She hesitated for a moment, the parcel like an almost impossibly heavy weight in her hand. There was nothing in these letters that was true _except it might have been, were you and he different people...perhaps if he kissed you on the roof that night after Teagan left, perhaps if he'd been waiting for you after Fiona confirmed your pregnancy..._

"Brand?" His voice was warm with concern and she blinked back tears of indeterminate origin, knowing that the selfishness expressed in the false missives was well beyond them, but feeling the pull of desire in retrospect. She'd spent countless nights lonely and secure in Teagan's arms, longing for someone who made her feel, even if everything else was uncertain.

Now was not the time to go with feeling over security and, yet, here she was. She leaned against Anders, peering up at him through her dark lashes, and hoping he didn't see in her eyes any echo of this..._turmoil_.

"They're love letters," she whispered this to him alone. "That _we_ wrote."

"Oh," he smirked. "They don't know us at all, do they? Why would we write when we could be _doing_? It's not like we haven't lived together all these years, _keeping records_ would be far riskier than just, you know, screwing around more. And less fun. In case you _missed_ that point."

Although she shouldn't be surprised by his distinctive outlook on the situation, she was. _A little_. Of course he was imagining them as being things they'd _actually_ write to each other- dirty jokes, dirty poems, dirty spell combinations and, possibly, a couple of filthy sketches. She was more capable than him in that area, although he'd rendered her worthless with choking laughter once during a ceremony at the Vigil, passing her a scrap of vellum with two stick figures labeled Garavel entwined and propositioning each other.

_Your sword is so big and plain._

_Your hair is so curly._

She shook her head to clear it _you_ _need to focus on the task at hand, Brand. You don't have time for this._

With one decisive step forward, she dumped the contents of the parcel into the fireplace. Elbow to elbow, she and Anders watched the papers curl to blackness, their relationship in fiction turned to ash at their feet.

They turned in unison to find Alistair waiting impatiently to speak with her.

"Yes?"

"You're just going to believe him?" This was spat out, the implication being _because, if you are, you are hopelessly stupid_. "It's all so..._convenient_, don't you think?"

"Yes," she frowned. "But I've dealt with enough of these sorts to know that, when there's a war between assassins, it's probably better to pick a side than be caught in the middle."

"You're assuming there _are_ sides," he'd regained a measure of civility, but there was still an obvious undercurrent of _you fool_ she didn't entirely appreciate or deserve. It seemed that his focus had turned from anguish to _this_.

"Then we're already dead, Alistair," she inched closer and kept her eyes trained on his. "I know the Crows did something terrible to you, but Zevran spared your life when he didn't have to."

"_Why_, though? You heard how he talked to me. He _hates_ me," Alistair pushed his hand through his hair in frustration, indignation flickering across his features.

_How is he not used to this by now?_ Brand was almost amazed by the way he seemed to ever be returning to some deeply held hopeful place only to find himself crushed anew.

"We were like a family, once," she spoke quietly, these words catching him and causing him to go still. "I wasn't the only one who missed you, Alistair. I wasn't the only one who considered you a friend, or more than that."

Apparently Alistair had never thought about it like that or considered that people who had traveled with him and fought beside him for a year might give a damn whether he lived or died. He had been so wrapped up in his own _thing_ that he didn't realized just how many people he was leaving behind. Now his face opened up a bit, his eyes going light as he clung to the good in what she said. She had no doubt he'd turned it against himself at some point in the future, but he was obviously of a mind to latch onto the barest of comforts.

"I think we should do what Zev advised we do," she was addressing everyone now and moving towards the center of the common room. "Go to Highever, keep our heads down and our eyes open, and lay low for a few days before heading to the Tower."

"Sigrun and I can leave now, in case they're planning an ambush..." Nathaniel was all ready to go, but Brand held up her hand.

"No, we don't want to so seem suspicious. We'll leave at the same time and you'll scout as normal today," she pulled her pack over her shoulder. Behind her, Anders was securing Bryce's bag which held Ser Pounce-a-lot. Fiona was still in her corner, her cloak pulled tight and her belongings on the floor at her feet. "Tomorrow I'll ride ahead and Alistair will take the rear. If he wants to, of course."

She glanced back where Alistair remained near the fire. He was visibly shocked at her announcement but his lips turned up at the corners in a grim smile as she put down Anders' protestations. Alistair was a man who needed a purpose, _duty_. He was broken, truly, but he was also an able fighter and someone she wanted on her side. It was time she started giving him responsibilities and treating him like a comrade, if only to keep his mind occupied. She certainly hoped it would work that way for her, otherwise it was going to be hours of mounting dread as they drew closer to Highever and everything that it meant to her.

_Maybe it will be different this time, maybe the ghosts have finally left for good._

She smiled, an unexpected and rueful grin. Despite the panic she felt in her brother's home, despite the memories and the nightmares, she always hoped that something in her was cured or that the stone had let go of what it witnessed that night. Despite the fact that she knew better, she _hoped_.

Brand's eyes met Alistair's one last time before they left the inn and it was a knowing look she gave him, an exchange between them as she silently acknowledged something they still shared.

* * *

The day and night that followed Zevran's unexpected appearance were uneventful. They set up camp for the evening in a clearing they'd used several times before, Brand and her Wardens erecting their tents with practiced efficiency before settling around a crackling fire to eat stew made from a brace of hares Nathaniel had killed throughout the afternoon. Despite the good food and warm fire, and the wine that flowed between them, conversation was scarce. Brand knew _she_ was distracted, as she'd been all day, by the twin threats of Ignacio's schemes and _home_.

Only Bryce and Anders were in high spirits. Bryce loved camping and he spent most of their dinner dancing next to the fire, his shadow being cast on their tent a never ending source of amusement as he flailed his limbs and sang a song about a barbarian warrior named Orual. Anders, of course, encouraged his merriment, even fetching the horned helm which Brand had laid out with the rest of her armor and plopping it on Bryce's head.

For a moment, in his long sleeping tunic and with the too large helmet obscuring his face, Bryce reminded her of the carved icons located throughout the Kocari Wilds, decorated by the darkspawn with bones and bits of debris to honor the Archdemon.

It was a fleeting thought, one that turned her stomach yet made her feel vaguely nostalgic. Who had she been in those wilds? She remembered some of it, of the men she fought with falling back as she tore into a monster that terrified them, taking her sword and dagger to it as if it were nothing more than a straw-filled practice dummy. She remembered Jory's not so quiet remarks about her recklessness, she remembered the way the darkspawn blood burned in an unexpected way and seared her skin. It was the _blood_ that had given her an anchor in reality. It was so alien that she couldn't push it down with everything else; unlike grief and anger, the darkspawn _demanded_ her attention.

She'd been a hollow woman back then. Limbs reacting automatically to _threat_ as her training took over and she was set to killing on and on and _on_. There was nothing left for her in the world, nothing that she could lose that would hurt her.

Now she had her goofy son, who had angled the helmet so he could see through one of the eye holes and was now stomping and waving his arms over his head with the occasional roar. She had her goofy mage, who was subtly stoking the fire to better augment Bryce's fearsome posturing. She even had friends she considered like family, including a father figure of sorts when she thought that no person could ever hope to fill that void in her life.

Now she had everything she could want, so many things that could be taken were someone of the mind to make her hurt, and here she was poised to possibly lose it all _and no matter what_. Even if they won, and she was certain they would, she'd be moving on alone, without so many of the people who made her life worthwhile. _Definitely_ her Wardens, and she had no _idea_ what she would do with Bryce and Anders, where they would fit in her life, if they could fit in her life at all.

"Momma?" Bryce was in front of her now, the helmet off and exhaustion shadowing his eyes. He took her cheeks between his hands and leaned close. "What's wrong?"

She was crying, she realized. It was a small trickle of tears, but her cheeks were definitely wet. She forced a smile which was echoed on her son's face and that made it worse, somehow, and she just wanted to engulf him in her arms, to run him away to a place where nobody could find him and take him from her, where nobody could put her in a position in which his existence was anything less than a blessing.

"I'm just tired, love. I think we should probably both turn in for the night," she poked his stomach. "What do you say?"

"I say yes!" He collapsed against her and she carried him to their tent, allowing Pounce the opportunity to join them. Anders and Nathaniel would be taking first watch, so they were able to sprawl across two bedrolls at the outset.

"How are you feeling, pup?" Bryce looked up at her with surprise, his shoulders twitching beneath his tunic. "I noticed that you and Anders have been talking an awful lot these past few days. Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"_Nothing_," he grinned slyly. "He said that you would be mad, but he told me that I should let Norah be bossy."

_What?_

"Why would you let Norah be bossy?"

His hands flew up in the perfect gesture of _you got me on that one_.

"Is there anything else he's been telling you?"

His eyes stayed on her face and he shook his head quickly, keeping his lips deliberately pressed together.

"Impressive. He knows how to get you to keep a secret," she touched his forehead and fought back the urge to _press_, although she realized it was better to leave it be. Anders would tell her if she really wanted to know and she didn't need Bryce in the habit of talking about his training to _anyone_. _Not even me._

"Nate said that- that Teagan had a bow," the sudden change in topic was a bit of a shock.

"He _did_ have a bow," she said this slowly, as always a little uncertain of how to talk to her son about his father. Bryce did not bring him up often, and usually only when he saw a beard that reminded him of Teagan's. Teagan's approach to child-rearing was quite informed by his own youth in the Free Marches, well away from his father who had remained in Ferelden as a central figure in the rebellion against Orlais. Teagan had adored his son but had often been pre-occupied with his responsibilities. That was fine, as Bryce was well cared for and they both seemed to enjoy the time they did spend together. It nonetheless made it difficult for Brand to navigate these conversations, uncertain how much Bryce actually understood concepts like _death_ and _father_. "He was very good with his, bow, too."

"Is it still..." he struggled visibly for the word. "Is it still alive? Like Nate's bow?"

That clarified a little. _Alive_ meant _around_.

"I still have it, it's at home. I intend to give it to you one day," and she did, although there'd probably be no need to train him as he'd be far more powerful on his own than with a weapon in his hand. If anything, it would be better to work with him to help strengthen his defensive abilities. Of course, Anders had minimal melee training and could hold his own pretty well with little more than a dagger and his arsenal of stuns, paralyzes and freezey spells. She couldn't imagine Bryce in the thick of things, anyway. He was so gentle that he might _never_ be comfortable going nose to nose with an opponent the way she was.

"Can I have it now? When we get home? Nate says that he can show me how to do bows and make arrows, too."

"Well, I'll show it to you when we get home. You can't _use_ it yet. It's taller than _you_ are."

"Oh," he covered his eyes as if that hadn't even occurred to him. "Is it...taller than you?"

"No, but it's taller than Sigrun!"

"_Wow_," and then he was dozing off beside her, placated by the promise of his father's bow. Brand noticed that he was pressed very close, despite the ample space afforded by the dual bed rolls.

"Are you cold, dear?"

"No, I'm leaving room for Anders," he yawned, but still sounded very much like he was putting her in her place for being silly enough to even _ask_. Pounce echoed this, his tail twitching and gold eyes narrowing in disdain.

"Don't I feel _stupid_," she moved her arm so that Bryce could settle with his back against her stomach, Pounce taking his place by their heads. Despite her gaffe, they seemed more than happy to make cozy with her.

Four hours later, this was how Anders found them. Brand's arm was still outstretched and, after removing his boots, Anders positioned himself beside Bryce, sliding in as to not wake any of them and so that Brand's hand remained with him, curled on his chest just above his heart.

* * *

By the time Brand awoke, Bryce had somehow managed to fling himself across her stomach, his feet somewhere on Anders. She didn't spend too much time dwelling on the arrangement, instead gathering her pack and crawling out of the tent to begin her morning routine.

If felt as if a lifetime had passed since she'd done this, changing in the open with only a tree between her and the camp. She knew that Fiona and Sigrun must be nearby, but she was unconcerned that they might stumble across her. There was very little that her Wardens hadn't seen of her.

"Brand?"

She jumped, her skin seeming suddenly two sizes to small as Fiona approached, face drawn tight.

Most people would apologize for the startle, but Fiona merely took a seat on a fallen log and watched with dark eyes while Brand resumed lacing the wool chausses that she wore over her hose.

"Did he say anything to you?" This was blurted out, abrupt even for the elf. She turned her focus to her hands, twisting as they were in her lap. "I haven't spoken to him once since I...I thought maybe he'd mentioned it."

"No," Brand buckled her faulds, noting the gap between it and her stomach. Her Warden metabolism meant that she couldn't go more than a few days without eating a ridiculous amount of food lest she start dropping weight she couldn't afford to lose. Being malnourished would certainly not help with the steady ache of fatigue in her arm. "He just told me that he knew. Nothing else."

Fiona remained motionless on the log, indirectly responding to what Brand had told her.

"I never imagined it would be easy, but I never thought that it would be so..._pointless_. I mean he knows now, and there's just nothing there. _Apathy_, but nothing else."

Brand didn't quite know what to say that would make things better. She doubted such words even existed. How does one smooth over _the son I've been missing for twenty-seven years could not care any less about my existence_? How could anyone ever be made to feel ok with _that_?

"Give him time to think about it," she shrugged into her breastplate. "I know that's about as profoundly unhelpful as anything could possibly be, but it's all you can do right now. We'll be in Highever soon, and Fergus will be more than happy to cheer you up."

Fiona seemed completely unimpressed, although her eyes rolled slightly. Disdain was always a good sign, coming from her.

By the time Brand returned to camp, it had been entirely dismantled and the tents stored in the carriage. Alistair was standing with Sigrun, looking surprisingly dashing in his golden splintmail. His eyes were brighter, his chin up and even his cheeks were marginally less sallow. It was such a stark contrast to Fiona's listless demeanor, Brand could only hope that the woman took some small amount of joy in seeing her son like _this_, close to how he was meant to be.

"Are we ready?" They were standing by Kadan and Sigrun's mount, Horsemeat. Horsemeat was small but stocky, his chestnut coat glossy over tightly wound muscles. He shared Sigrun's even temperament, which meant that Alistair should have no difficulties handling him for a few hours. She indicated the swords at Alistair's hips, Starfang and his father's blade."How does it feel?"

"Wonderful," it spilled past his lips a little too quickly and he rolled his eyes upwards as if mortified. "It's just nice to do something I know I _can_ do, is all."

"The shiny probably helps," Sigrun touched his pauldron with mock reverence. "Ooooh, _shiny_."

Alistair stared at the dwarf as if she had licked his cheek or something equally uncouth. Sigrun giggled at his reaction, buoyant laughter that caught him even more off guard.

"Enough goofing, let's get going, then," Brand touched Kadan's neck, giving him a quick once over before she mounted. Nathaniel had been taking excellent care of him on the road, she would have to thank him later. Beside her, Alistair was now astride Horsemeat, who whinnied a bit at the extra weight but settled quickly into complacency. "I'll leave now, have Gil follow once I'm out of sight and you follow him once he's gone. Nate will be on the back of the coach, so it should be covered if anything gets between it and you."

Alistair nodded, his hands twisting in the reins and she realized that she should have done something like this sooner, to give him something to do besides think.

"Thank you, for letting me do this" it was so quiet that she almost missed it entirely. Alistair watched her expectantly and, when she didn't immediately respond, his eyes went sorrowful. His demeanor only moments before was little more than a flimsy shroud over the same dark veneer.

_But it's a start. _Another_ start._

"I should have done it when we first started," it was an echo of a thought and completely sincere. "Let you feel useful, instead of trapped."

He didn't respond, and they sat in awkward silence for a few seconds before Brand returned to business.

"Remember that there are four Wardens with that carriage; three of whom are just about the most deadly things around. If you fall under attack, don't try to fight them yourself. Fiona and Anders know how to keep Bryce safe."

"All right," he shifted in his saddle. "You remember that, too."

"Pardon?" Her brows went up in surprise.

"Don't _pardon?_ me, Brand," he smirked at her. "You're far more likely than I am to take on an ambush singlehandedly."

There was no denying this, so she nudged Kadan with her heel and started down the road without a word in her defense.

For the first hour, she focused on _around_, every bird song, every twig snap, every whistle of the wind as it blew in from the sea. She pushed out the soft clatter of her armor, and the steady clopping of Kadan's hooves on the road below to just listened to the world, to hear what it had to tell her.

Not much, as it turned out. As boredom set in and she wished desperately for someone to talk to, her mind turned back to the first time she'd returned to Highever, after the Blight. It had taken her nearly three months to make it to the city itself and a full week to work up the courage to step through the gates of Castle Cousland. It was the idea of her brother there, and alone, trying to put together the pieces of their broken past that finally got her.

She'd lasted two minutes, unable to even walk into the main hall without her brain going into a full blown _Gilmore died here, Gilmore died _here_!_ panic and she ran back to the gate, babbling incoherently about delicious cheese at the inn and how she could really go for some _cheese_ and maybe some _ale_.

Fergus had thrown his arms around her as she grabbed for the gate, holding her until she was calm, only _calm_ was crying in his arms because, before, this place had been home to a girl who was bright and cheerfully promiscuous and just a little bit self-absorbed. And it had been home to her family and her friends and now _all_ of that- the girl and her family and her friends- were gone.

All gone except for Fergus, and he held her even tighter because _she_ was all he had to hold onto in this Makerforsaken place.

Slowly, she'd came around and he walked her through the castle, pointing to corners where he'd been caught stealing kisses from a maid, or the storage room where she'd been caught taking far more from a pair of Bann Sighard's knights. There was the battlement from which she'd tumbled at age twelve while leaping along the wall in an attempt to freak him right out with her _fearlessness_ that had earned her nothing more than a broken leg and two weeks of being lectured by Scribe Aldous about the importance of blah, blah, blah until she realized that not _everything_ was gone. She still had Fergus, for one, and his arms would always be around her when she needed it to be. Even when they fought, which had happened more than a few times since she'd married Teagan and became an arlessa, they forced themselves to part on good terms, the knowledge that they were their only links to a past _mostly_ destroyed was enough to keep things civil between them.

She prayed that this pact of theirs would remain in place after today. There was so much going on that Fergus would not approve of, so many ways that things could go fantastically wrong. But he'd also understand why Brand had done most of what she'd done, he'd see her point of view and, perhaps, even see a few options that she hadn't.

_Like one in which I can stay at the Vigil _and_ have my life back...that would be just about perfect._

With a sigh, she returned her focus to the road and lost herself in scouting until the uninhabited coast gave way to small fringe settlements and the familiar wooden gates of Highever were looming in front of her.

There was no need to go through the city proper, which would be nearly impossible with their coach, so Brand waited until Gil could see her before she took the west road that wound up to Castle Cousland, situated just beyond the city.

As they approached, she forced herself to take measured breaths, to push aside unpleasant thoughts and think about seeing her sister-in-law _who will no doubt disdain all over your choice in travel attire_ and her niece _who will be dragging your son all over the keep within the hour_. Kadan startled beneath her, his forward moment stopped while his hooves beat against the ground.

There were guards on the road, her brother's men, and they were coming from an outpost that she knew was within the city wall to her right.

"Hail, my lady," one of the guards pushed up his visor so he could take her in, her plain yet finely crafted armor, her enchanted longswords, and the well-bred horse she sat upon all indicative that she was of some importance. "Warden-Commander?"

"Aye," she pulled Kadan up beside him. "I assume you're expecting me?"

The guard nodded and jerked his chin towards the road.

"Teryn Fergus told us to watch for you this mornin', in the hopes you'd be arrivin' early," he had an unmistakable lilt to his speech. "If you hurry, you may catch him in the stables."

It was perfunctory a welcome as one could hope to receive in their home town, and Brand was glad for it. Waiting until Gil and Alistair caught up with her on the road, she led them the final quarter mile to the castle gates, which were already yawning to accept them, stewards swarming the coach as it drew to a halt and the stable hands offering immediate attention to Kadan and Horsemeat.

Above it all, however, was the warm boom of her brother's voice as he called to her over the heads of his staff.

"At long last, my dearest sister has arrived to me!"

Brand dismounted carefully, nodding her appreciation at the young men who took Kadan, and then flung herself into Fergus's outstretched arms without even taking the time to ensure that the man she flung herself towards was _actually_ Fergus.

It was a moment blessedly free from stress, or any nods towards decorum. They were simply siblings who were happy to see one another. That they were two of the most powerful individuals in the country did not seem to faze any of those around them as everyone hurried about their business, stopping only to allow Bryce and Fiona to dive through the crowd to join her beside Fergus.

Fiona received a bow and a cordial kiss on the back of her hand, while Bryce was swept up and thrown in the air before Fergus caught him against his chest in a bear hug, Bryce giggling madly the entire time.

Nathaniel and Sigrun approached after, each one greeting the teyrn with casual respect and receiving emphatic pats on the back. As the crowd thinned out, the stewards laden with their belongings and now moving towards the castle proper, only Anders and Alistair remained hanging back.

Alistair appeared about three seconds away from hurling all over his boots, but he shuffled forward to present himself to the teyrn.

Fergus' eyes swept the length of the man in front of him, and Brand saw recognition flicker in his dark eyes. He was seeing Cailan, and perhaps some of Maric. He was also seeing a man who'd turned his back on Ferelden, and a man who'd left his sister to fail in her efforts to save the world.

"You must be Alistair," his tone was cordial. It was not the warmth he exuded towards the other Wardens, but it was more than Brand expected.

"Yes, my lord," Alistair inclined his head nervously, his eyes darting towards Brand, _Maker, help me! _clear on his face.

"Fergus, we're all _incredibly_ filthy and quite tired. Would it be too much to request baths be drawn so we can, you know, be presentable for whatever gauntlet of manners Melisande has prepared for us this evening?" This drew her brother's attention back to her, a smile brightening his face.

"Oh, you don't even know the half of it. Between afternoon tea, dinner and the dessert cart that Lady Hopewell _insisted_ she have..."

Brand froze, her cheeks going incredibly red. She heard Anders snort behind her.

"Coll...Lady Hopewell is here?" This squeaked out and Anders laughed harder.

"Lord _and_ Lady Hopewell," Fergus put on his best_ I'm going to pretend my sister has never taken a single lover_ face and smiled. "And they are very much looking forward to seeing you, little sister. They requested the room next to yours, _for some reason_."

_This_ sent Anders into full on _gales_ of laughter and Brand realized then how much it was going to suck now that she could never tell him _anything_ ever again.

"What's funny, Brand?" Bryce looked from her to where Anders was wiping tears from his eyes.

"Anders is just being an ass, love," she glared at him and that just made it _worse_. "We should get going, if we're going to squeeze in baths and naps before the _festivities_."

Taking Bryce's hand, Brand began striding forward. It was only after several steps that she realized a few members of their group were lagging behind, Anders and Fergus still back where they'd all been gathered just moments before.

She almost called out, but Anders motioned her ahead. She complied, the notion of a post-bath nap distracting enough that she didn't even flinch when they were escorted into the castle courtyard and through the stone halls with their _memories_.

* * *

Anders probably should have waited to do this at a time when he _wasn't_ in the throes of amusement and hoping for more, albeit at Brand's expense. He imagined that there were _protocols_ for this sort of thing, perhaps a ceremony or, at the very least, usually brandy.

He wondered, briefly, if Teagan had asked Fergus' permission before _he _proposed to Brand. It seemed like something Teagan might do, courtly and _right_. Anders had never dreamt that he'd even _think_ about asking a woman to marry him, marriage something not encouraged in the Circle or within the Wardens and, of course, so _permanent_. Then there was _when _he'd decided to go for it in the first place, stomach to stomach and naked in the dark. Her arms tight around him made him feel, more than anything had in his entire life, _wanted_ but _not_ trapped and _good_ in an indescribably complete way.

And who _didn't_ want to spend the rest of their life feeling good on a regular basis? Or to pretend for a few days that such a thing was an option?

Not that _feeling good_ was his only reason, or even the most important one. It had just been reassurance that, if the unthinkable did occur and he could actually _marry_ her, it would be...pretty perfect, to be honest.

Now Fergus was watching him collect himself, a smile playing on his lips as he winked knowingly at Anders.

"I think we can probably set my sister aflame with embarrassment, if we play our cards right," Fergus laughed.

"Did they _really_ request a room near hers?" Anders began to walk, his pace lazy.

"They did, although they must not realize that _I_ know," he screwed up his face. "Or maybe they do. It wouldn't surprise me, considering."

Anders could dwell on the potential for the whole Lord and Lady Hopewell situation for _days_, but he hadn't requested a private audience with a teyrn for amusement alone.

"I proposed to Brand," Anders decided to not dance around the subject. The bluntness stopped Fergus and he was no longer smiling.

"You…what?" Fergus came closer, his eyes slightly narrowed.

"You heard me," Anders kept his tone mild. "She said yes, by the way. Thank you for _asking_. I'll assume your congratulations to be forthcoming."

"Are you insane?" He didn't wait for an answer. "_You_ actually looked _Brand_ in the eye and asked her to be your _wife_?"

"Well, it was _dark_ so eye contact wasn't really happening…and she said yes. That makes her _just_ as insane, if not more so, than me. I'm just a _mage_. _She's_ the one who was raised to fear _me_. Not the other way around."

Fergus scowled.

"That's…not what I meant, Anders," he looked around to ensure they weren't being followed or eavesdropped on. "Do you have any idea how this will look? Do you have any idea what _important people_ are already saying about the two of you?"

"I know _some_ of it," Anders actually knew quite a _bit_, thanks to men like Nathaniel and Garavel, but it wasn't like he was operating under the delusion that _important people_ would embrace the idea of an arlessa _being_ with a mage, especially if she were the Arlessa of Redcliffe. He couldn't even _pretend_ to be a Warden in that case. "But until this entire situation is settled, I don't intend for them to find out. Or for anyone to find out. Besides _you. _Obviously."

Fergus' arms were across his chest and he had an air of distinct and annoyed confusion.

"Why are you telling _me _this? You shouldn't even be traveling together, you know. At least until things are _settled_."

"I'm telling you so you don't say _that_ to Brand, the bit about us travelling together," Anders frowned. "She _listens_ to you, and she might get ideas about _my_ safety, if not her own. I know that now is _not_ the time for this, but I can't risk her getting it into her head that I should be sent away, for anyone's sake."

"This wasn't an argument you could have made _without_ a proposal?" Fergus _still_ wasn't following.

"Maybe. But I thought it might carry more weight if I approached you in _this_ capacity and not just as the man who's having sex with your sister," Anders ignored the way Fergus' shoulders tensed at that. "Because I'm _not_ just having sex with Brand. She and Bryce are my family and you, of all people, should know why my _staying _is nonnegotiable. I'll never her touch her again if it comes to that, but I won't be sent away as long as I know there are bastards out there who are trying to hurt them."

Fergus continued to stare at him, his expression disconcertingly closed off. Anders was relieved to see an utter lack of annoyance or anger, though. Instead, there might have been _guilt_ in the way he couldn't quite meet Anders' gaze.

"I believe you. Every word," surprise was evident in Fergus' voice as he looked towards the castle and then back to Anders. "Congratulations. I mean that. I only wish I saw a way for this to end happily."

"_Happily_ doesn't have to mean a lifetime together," _although a lifetime together would not be the _worst_ thing_. "All of us _alive _would be enough for me."


	36. Awkward

Castle Cousland was not exactly what Alistair expected it to be.

It seemed strange that he'd expected anything, to be honest. It was an unsettling reminder of dreams he'd had before- of returning to Highever with Brand to reclaim her family's lands, to help rebuild what Howe had tried so hard to destroy, to help her cope with the anguish deferred by her sudden plunge into Grey Wardenhood.

The keep was smaller than Redcliffe Castle, older and less overwhelmingly solid. The corridors opened to the sky and the stone around them was a paler grey, both reminders that this was northern Ferelden, a place not as subject to the whims of the county's famously chill weather.

There was something casual about this place, the way the fine banners bearing the laurel crest of the Cousland family hung from ancient and splintering beams of wood, and there were signs everywhere of lived in. Redcliffe Castle always seemed vacant to him, empty room after empty room and vast corridors with nothing in them but suits of armor and dog statues. There were people here, and signs of people, and voices that echoed from every nook and cranny.

They were being led to the main quarters, and he could see Brand's hand tightening around Bryce's, her teeth on her lip as she kept her path to the center of the corridor, her eyes focused ahead.

Alistair remembered when they'd revisited Ostagar, the ghosts of their fallen brethren in the very air they breathed. She'd seen much worse here, everything close and personal.

He realized that he was struggling to not reach out and put his arm around her shoulder. And it wouldn't be a romantic gesture, but the right thing to do. Well, if being her friend was _right_, which he wasn't certain it was.

They were turning left and moving up an incline when they encountered two women who were obviously awaiting their arrival. Their bearing and finery marked them as noblewomen and Alistair could not miss the way Brand's stride faltered at their appearance.

"Lady Guerrin," the smaller of the women spoke first, her accent distinctly Antivan. She was plain, Alistair thought, with prim, even features and black hair that she wore in a carefully wound knot at the base of her neck. Her gown, indigo velvet, came up high on her chest and flared out below her petit bosom to accommodate a midsection swollen with child. "A pleasure to see you, sister. As always."

"And you, Melisande," Brand stopped several feet short and made no move to embrace her brother's wife.

"Call her _Brand_," Bryce was already skipping forward and Teyrna Melisande offered him a slightly warmer greeting.

"You look more like your father every time I see you, dear Bryce," Alistair saw the muscle in Brand's jaw twitch. "Norah is napping in her nursery, if you would like to join her."

Bryce shrugged and fell back to his mother, suddenly uncertain what sort of game his aunt was playing at. A nap already?

"La- Brand, surely you remember Lady Hopewell?" Melisande gestured to the woman at her elbow, who'd been watching Brand with peculiar interest. She was strikingly beautiful, nearly as tall as Brand and slender with straight dark hair that hung loose around a guileless, heart-shaped face. Most notable were her eyes, wide and the color of a hazy summer sky.

"So formal, Melisande. Brand and I know each other _quite_ well, do we not, my dear?" Her lips twisted into a devilish grin at odds with her sweet demeanor and Alistair realized, with a funny lift in his stomach, why Anders had been so very amused to hear that she was on the premises. "I do hope we get an opportunity to catch up. It's been a few years, has it not?"

"A few," Brand's fingers were twisting in Bryce's hair, and he looked up as if to say _don't involve _me_ in this_. "Fergus tells me that Cavin is here as well?"

Lady Hopewell nodded, eyes brightening.

"_Awesome_," Brand nudged at Bryce. "We should really get clean. Road grit and all that."

Melisande's nose crinkled slightly, "Did you not travel in your coach, sister?"

"Most of the time, but I scouted this morning. And we made camp last night," Brand was guiding the group by as she spoke, clearly not wishing to spend more time being interrogated or eyed like a succulent roast. "We want to be well turned out for dinner, you know."

The teyrna nodded sanguinely.

"This is true. I was hoping you could join Lady Hopewell and me for tea this afternoon. Perhaps after a nap?" Hands folding neatly against her stomach, there was nothing _questioning_ about Melisande's expression. It was either _yes_ or _yes_.

"Of course," and then they were really on the move, up an incline that wound to the left to lead them into a covered foyer with rooms off of both sides.

The stewards had deposited Alistair and Nathaniel's belongings in one room, while Fiona and Sigrun would share one across the foyer.

Fiona. His _mother_.

He blinked hard and willed himself to think of everything but that. Unfortunately, glancing around did not help him feel any less _weird_ as a sense of family settled over him. There were portraits on the walls of the foyer, a handsome man with steel colored hair who looked like Fergus with a mask of middle age set comfortably on his features, and a woman who was obviously Brand's mother, the stubborn strength in her green eyes leaping out at him from the canvas.

_We were like family once._

Alistair's stomach tightened and he slunk into his quarters after Nathaniel, who seemed almost as ill-at-ease as Alistair. Of course, _his_ father had led his men to slaughter the Couslands.

"The teyrn doesn't seem to hold it against you," and that was _not_ meant to be spoken aloud. Alistair turned quickly, hoping that the words would just evaporate before they made it to the other man's ears.

"I assume you mean Fergus treats me like a human being, despite what my father did here," Nathaniel's tone was cool but not angry. "Both Fergus and Brand have forgiven me the misfortune of my paternity. They are very _gracious_."

"I didn't mean to imply," Alistair's face was numb with mortification. _What a dumb thing to say to a person_. "I just know how people can...cling to wrongs. And Fergus never got the chance to see Howe..."

Nathaniel watched him squirm, his dark brows pulled low. He was just daring Alistair to continue that statement. _And Fergus never got the chance to see Howe die a coward in his own dungeon_.

"Were you there, Alistair? You were still traveling with Brand when my father died...not that I care anymore, exactly," there was much complication in his expression and Alistair wished, and not for the first time in his life, that he had been born without a tongue.

"No, I stayed behind...I remember how upset it made Brand, though. She was a wreck when she came back, she cried all _night_ about the things she'd seen and..." Nathaniel was staring at him and when Alistair realized what he'd just said his cheeks went hot. "Yes. I'm going to...go see if I can find..._something_."

He all but ran out of the room, his hand pulling at the buckles on his breastplate, sweat suddenly the _thing_ as his chest tightened and he felt compressed between so many emotions from then and now and all in an attempt to make sense of this place and what it meant to someone who'd once meant everything to him.

With some effort, he managed to remove most of his plates, dropping the pieces to the floor outside of the door to his room. The shirt and breeches look wasn't the most flattering, but it was better than before. Less restrictive and sweaty.

He knew that the family quarters were beyond their own rooms, so he went back they way they'd come in, moving idly down the walkway, his hand trailing the stone wall. _Mindlessness_ would be key to making this all work, so he trained his eyes on the ground and counted his steps, each number serving to keep him from dwelling, or feeling, or

"Alistair?"

He spun around, the world going with him until he stopped and it kept _going_ for just a second before settling on _her_, sitting at a game board in the alcove where they'd encountered the teyrna and Lady Hopewell.

Fiona. His _mother_.

His heart went crazy. As much as he didn't want to care, and he didn't because caring begat disappointment and his soul was already crushed under that which he'd been served over his lifetime, there was a piece of him who just wanted to know how it all worked. _Mother_. He'd seen his _father_ a few times, and his _brother_ a handful. There'd been an unfortunate run in with his sister in Denerim, but the less he thought about that the better. Or...

"What about Goldanna?" He took the seat across from her, his eyes on the game board, on the wall next to them, on the ground. Anywhere but on _Fiona_.

His mother.

"_Goldanna_?" She was legitimately confused. "Oh, you were told she was your sister."

His head shot up and he met her dark gaze; her eyes were soft now, yet guarded. He couldn't blame her for being so _guarded_ and he only wished he could master such a thing, to save himself a load of pain. Only...she seemed to have not been spared an ounce of pain in her lifetime, so the _guarding_ may have only kept out potential good.

"She's not my sister?" That made sense but didn't, in a way. Goldanna was the daughter of Eamon's maid, and not...this woman. Or something like that.

"No," the word was hollow. "Brand seemed distinctly relieved when she came to that realization."

"Relieved or _vindicated_?" It slipped out easily, and Fiona's lips quirked slightly at the jokey tone of the question. She, of course, had no idea how angry Brand was after they'd met Goldanna. Alistair had been fairly certain that he might have to carry her back to Eamon's estate before she did something rash and _physical_ in retaliation for Goldanna's less than charitable comments towards Alistair.

"A little of both, I think. Was she...was she really _that_ bad?"

"I...yes. She was horrible and I...," _and I wouldn't have felt obligated to pretend to not hate her if I didn't think she was my sister, which I thought because _you_ abandoned me and let my father and everyone else feed me lies my entire life..._"I should go." He stood abruptly, his knees hitting the table in front of him and spilling the game to the ground at Fiona's feet. "_Blast_. Here, I'll get that..."

He half expected her to offer to help. Instead, she found her feet, too, and rushed back towards her room without another word.

_Well _that_ went beautifully_. Alistair threw the game pieces onto the table and fell back on his ass, his head reclined against the wall behind him. "You really, really should just stop talking for a few years."

"It probably would save you quite a bit of trouble," Anders came from around the corner, looking very tall from Alistair's perspective and _odd_ with Ser Pounce-a-lot perched on one shoulder. "Although I suppose the same could be said of _me_."

The mage didn't stay to chat, his feet carrying him onward with bracing self-assurance. _They all know this place, they've all been here and shared in this family of Brand's. They _are_ Brand's family, even my mother._

"Fuck my life," he spoke a bit too loudly.

"Also a smart sentiment!" The mage didn't even look back as he called this or he would have seen a very irritated Alistair offering a very evocative gesture.

* * *

For some sadistic reason, they decided to seat Alistair in the middle of the dining room table. Melisande, Fergus and the Hopewells were on his right, the Wardens to his left. Brand was seated across from him and she was every bit as over the whole affair as him.

She'd been _over_ even before dinner, pulling Alistair aside to inform him that Fergus wanted to speak with them after dinner. From her weary expression, it was not going to be a fun conversation.

Since they'd been seated around twenty minutes ago, Melisande had been telling stories. _Anora_ stories, that required her to say _Anora_ about fifty times and, although she never _looked_ at Alistair, he couldn't help but think that it was being done intentionally to _needle_ him.

He _hated_ that it needled him.

"...so then _Anora_ gave him one of her _looks_ and asked if he'd been raised in a _cistern_ and not a manor." Like that was in any way witty or original or _anything_, yet Melisande covered her mouth with one small hand and blushed.

Brand sat picking at her bread, her teeth clenched against any number of things she could snap at her sister-in-law, like _if you say _Anora_ one more time I will carry you out of here and lock you in a closet,_ were she not being socially acceptable. Anders, however, was not bound by the same decorum. It didn't help that he'd already put back four goblets of wine, each cupful being attacked with notably less finesse than the one before.

"Melis...sorry," he paused for a moment and looked thoughtful. Thoughtful and _mischievous_. "Sorry, _Lady_ Melis. I was hoping to ask a few questions of your other guests..."

"_Anders_," Brand's hand was going for the cutlery.

"What? It just feels weird to be sitting here with them right there, being _beautiful_, and us not knowing them at all. Don't you agree, Alistair?"

Brand's eyes said _Tell him _no_, that you don't give a damn about Lord and Lady Hopewell_.

He didn't care at all, one way or another, but Anders was _right_ about them both being ridiculously attractive. Cavin Hopewell was as striking as his wife with eyes that were even more blue. Besides...how bad could this story be, really?

"Sure," Alistair shrugged and Brand fell back with an epic sigh. Cavin and his wife shared an amused glance as Anders took his time gathering his thoughts.

"You know, it occurs to me that I have no idea how," his hands waved in the air for a minute, indicating Brand and the nobles' end of the table. "You know...you guys. I have no idea how you actually work. Arranged marriages? Draw names from a hat? See each other from across a crowded room andlightning strikes, it's love?"

"We're not a different breed, Anders," Brand had her fingers on the bridge of her nose; Alistair could swear she was trying to disappear. "And we don't...draw names out of hats."

"Oh, I know how _you_ do it, Commander," he regarded her from the corner of his eyes, affection mingled with something else Alistair couldn't quite pinpoint. "You like to take them by storm and not give them a chance to _breathe_ until they're yours. Even if they were _yours_ all along."

"That sounds about right, Ser Mage," this was Lady Hopewell, Colleen_,_ and her attention was caught on Brand. "And I'm sure there are others here who can attest to the effectiveness of her methods."

Alistair bristled slightly. Did they mean him? Did they _know_? And Brand hadn't really taken him by storm, had she? Certainly, he was breathless around her and _a lot_, but that was because he'd never been so _close_ to a woman before, not a woman who wanted him and that he could have.

That's when Alistair realized eyes were turned to Cavin, who was chewing with deliberate smugness while Fergus and Anders _especially_ awaited his remarks with expectant smiles.

"Well," he took a sip of wine. "I think that Lady Colleen could tell this better than me."

"Or nobody could tell it _at all_," Brand was staring at her plate now, scarlet streaking her cheeks. "Or..." she grabbed her goblet to take a long drink, then held it aloft, a server appearing out of nowhere to refill it. She finished the second round with three large gulps as everyone focused on _her_ now. "Ok. Let's get this over with."

The Hopewells exchanged a _look_ and Colleen leaned against the table.

"Well, Ser Mage. About seven years ago, a few months before the..._war_, there was a tournament held in Highever, to recruit a Grey Warden I think," she waved off the significance of _that_ detail. "To keep Brand out of the games, Teyrna Eleanor planned a series of garden parties and balls to occupy her time."

"All under the guise of finding a man willing to deal with me...desire to join the tourney and all," Brand was making short work of her third goblet of wine.

"Whatever the reason, Brand was absolutely against the idea," Cavin tipped his head towards his wife. "And spent more time trying to scandalize her _suitors_ than woo them. Or be wooed _by_ them."

"Or she was just going about her business as normal!" Fergus threw his head back and roared with laughter. "This is the girl who dragged a kitchen boy from his job at the sinks and kissed him in front of half the Landsmeet, just because."

"I thought it would ruin my reputation and no one would want to marry me," Brand looked at Alistair when she said this, a frown tugging the corners of her mouth. "And I was _ten_. Give me a break."

"I didn't even know what kissing _was_ when I was ten," it was Alistair's turn to stare at his plate. That wasn't a total truth, but it was close enough. He knew what kissing _was_, but had no idea it was something he'd be allowed to do.

"I bet Anders had kissed half the girls in Highever by the time he was ten," Fergus lifted his goblet and tilted it towards the Wardens' end of the table. "To accomplishments."

"To hearing the rest of this story," Anders offered Colleen a wolfish smile.

"At one event, the guest of honor herself approached me with a proposition that I could not possibly turn down."

"Who would have guessed?" Fiona augmented this with a snort and received a withering glare from her commander.

"Please, feel free to describe said proposition in glorious and intimate detail," Anders feigned seriousness for a moment. "Fergus, cover your ears."

The teyrn did as instructed and everyone at the table who wasn't Melisande or Brand at least smiled at the exaggerated expression of innocence on the man's face.

"It was your standard invitation to get to know one another better, someplace _secluded_. I think the phrase 'and with doors that _lock'_ was used, ironically enough. What made it so enticing, of course, was Brand's insistence on _smiling_ through the entire thing, as if she knew that whatever happened would be the most fun either one of us would have our entire lives," Colleen's face went serious in profile, and Alistair could see her watching Brand from the corner of her eyes. "Of course, _fun_ and young Lady Cousland were practically inseparable, and everyone knew it."

Alistair stole a glance at Brand, who was no longer blushing but _had_ returned her eyes to her plate. Sympathy twisted his stomach. He couldn't imagine what she was feeling now. _I was happy once, Alistair._ She'd whispered this one night while they were on watch and he was falling in love with her by the heartbeat. _I don't think it'll ever happen again._

He'd tried to make it happen for her, futile as that effort turned out to be.

Suddenly, her head came up and she was smiling, a delirious grin that did nothing to eradicate the shadows of hurt in her eyes.

"Don't forget to tell them how them how fun it really _was_, Colleen. What was it you told me?"

Colleen missed the edge in Brand's voice and laughed.

"I told you that anyone who complained about your smart mouth could easily have their opinion changed within five minutes of being alone with it," she smirked. "To say nothing of your _tongue_."

"Colleen!" Melisande's dark eyes were wide with disapproval. It had been mounting in her expression since Anders hijacked the conversation, but this was just too much.

"She's right, Melis. No need to be delicate about it," Brand had apparently decided to forgo that whole politeness thing. "It's nothing _I'm_ ashamed of."

"Thank the _Maker_," Anders was regarding her with something close to awe.

"Anyway," it was Cavin's turn to talk. "Colleen wasn't the only one who'd been approached by young Lady Cousland at this event. I am quite an avid horseman and she expressed a desire for expert instruction on her riding techniques..."

Nathaniel, seated at Alistair's elbow, let out a groan of _how lame can a person be?_ and Brand shrugged with lazy nonchalance.

"Not being made of _stone_, I happily accepted her request for private instruction," he cleared his throat and turned to his wife. "In retrospect, it was the best decision I've ever made. You see, Brand had misjudged how occupied Colleen would keep her so when _I_ arrived at her chambers, she was..."

"Utterly naked and deeply appreciative of Colleen's willingness to reciprocate," she turned to her Wardens, eyes glassy. "It was a very _pleasant_ surprise."

"So in stumbles Cavin," Colleen pointed to her husband. "I thought Brand had planned it in attempt to make him jealous, or more interested. _Cavin_ thought she'd gotten bored with the idea of him and grabbed the next body that caught her attention."

"And, in reality, I was just a whore," she raised her goblet in mock triumph. "Colleen stormed out and Cavin ran off to comfort her. I ended up spending that night alone with my hand and _they_ were married shortly after the Blight. _Funny_ how these things work out, isn't it?"

For a moment there was silence as the bite that had entered her voice turned the air hot with tension. Everyone as avoiding eye contact, and Fergus' hands had fallen from his ears. Anders was the most somber, his expression darkening with regret.

"You were married not too long after the end of the Blight, were you not, sister?" Melisande's voice was smooth and cool. "So things worked out for you, too, in the end. You were lucky to find a man as fine as Arl Teagan."

Brand's face had gone blank, her eyes empty but shining from the sheer quantity of wine she'd consumed, and she could only nod in response to the comment. _Nod_ and excuse herself from the room, with a polite _thank you for the lovely meal_ and _I'll_ _be in the library when you're ready to talk, Fergus._

Nobody went after her, which surprised Alistair. He was certain Anders would at least try, but the mage remained seated, thoughtful again but not mischievous.

"Fergus?"

"Yes, Anders?" The teyrn was similarly sedate.

"Have I told you the story about the candle maker and his wife's delicious pie?"

Fergus' face relaxed into a smile.

"You have, but I don't think it would hurt anyone if you told me again."

As Anders gleefully launched into what turned out to be a filthy little parable that became something grand and depraved in his hands, his eyes never strayed far from the empty space that had, only minutes ago, been his lover.

Alistair was just glad to know that he wasn't the only one with the taste for shoe leather that evening.

* * *

Alistair managed to beat Fergus to the library where Brand was, indeed, awaiting them, her back to the door as she remained seated on a plush settee situated in front of the massive fireplace.

He _was_ surprised to find her still awake; between the wine and the fire she must have been incredibly drowsy.

"I'd be drooling on the velvet, were I you," he found an elaborately carved wooden chair and dragged it into position at the far end of the couch.

"I should be. I _would_ be," she rubbed her eyes, her knuckles turning white with the pressure. "I have a lot to think about. Stupid trying to stay alive interfering with my ability to enjoy a drunken nap by the fire."

Alistair didn't respond, but studied her instead. He'd gotten used to seeing her, he'd become accustomed to her voice and her smile and just being _around_ her. What he still struggled with was who she _was_, who she'd become. During his years away, he'd heard the tales, had seen the paintings and the statuettes and had drunkenly sang along with the songs. He imagined her living an uncomplicated life of grandeur, the heroine catered to by her adoring public and eased through a charmed existence.

He could not have been more wrong.

Especially now, as she sat with her shoulders bowed beneath the weight of someone else's designs against her, appearing almost fragile and more like a ghost than a woman.

"I dreamt about you, while I was traveling to the Free Marches," Alistair licked his lips and tried to make this come out in a way that would not blow up in his face. "There was a child who was dying from dehydration...I was, too. Then I woke up, and _you_ were there. You led us to the deck right before it began to pour. The rain saved us both. It was just a dream, but you were so _real_ and...when it started to rain you turned your face up, like you did at Ostagar and at the Keep. Most men run when a storm is coming, but you hand yourself over."

"I'm tired of handing myself over," her voice ached with the honesty of those words.

She looked as if she might say more but Fergus entered, and loudly, as the heavy doors to the library swung back to hit the wall.

"Are you fit for conversation?" He'd barely made it to fireplace when he asked this, his expression concerned despite the brusqueness.

"Sure," Brand arranged herself so that she was perched on the edge of the settee, back straight and hands clasped at her knees.

"So you're going to be a smartass about it?" He seemed more amused than annoyed.

"Always," she crossed her legs primly at the knee and smiled prettily at her brother, who could only roll his eyes.

"You can imagine what it was like growing up with her, Alistair," Fergus shook his head. "She was like this _all the time_."

"I don't think Alistair cares to imagine much about me, brother," this was matter of fact. "And he's well aware of my sundry personality quirks."

"I imagine he has a few of his own. Maric and Cailan certainly did," the teyrn turned his attention to Alistair and the good-natured expression was replaced by something slightly less kind. "Which is why you're here. You do realize, don't you, that Anora is going to call for your execution the moment you step foot in Denerim?"

"For the Landsmeet?" Alistair hadn't been told to keep their knowledge of Fergus' plans secret. "I do realize that."

_I might even welcome it...a little. Maybe._

"Wait, do you think Anora would really try to kill him, even if he's made no efforts towards the throne or...anything?" Brand's voice rang with disbelief. "_Eamon_ brought him here. Surely he wouldn't have if that were the case."

"I don't think Eamon was in his right mind when he summoned Alistair," Fergus sighed and kicked at the hearth. "As much as it pains me to say, he hadn't been himself for years."

Brand stared into the fire, unable to look at either man. Alistair knew she blamed herself for this, she'd already admitted as much to him in Amaranthine.

"But he's a Warden," this came out of nowhere and Alistair felt something inside stir that hadn't been stirred in years. She met her brother's gaze. "He's a Warden _again_. If we go in front of the Landsmeet with that, she can't do anything to him. He was conscripted, he's taken his Joining. All he has to do is say he's back in Ferelden as a Grey Warden."

They both turned to him, eyes bright with expectation.

"So I take it you're not going to put me forward as the heir to Redcliffe?" It was a joke, but Fergus' eyes darkened considerably. "Uh, right. If the Warden-Commander of Ferelden is willing to call me a Grey Warden, I can call myself a Grey Warden, too."

Fergus nodded, relief undoing some of the tension that had settled across his features.

"But you brought up the other thing we needed to talk about," he turned his dark gaze to his sister. "Redcliffe needs an arl, Brand. Despite what Eamon may have wanted to happen, Bryce is the heir to the arling."

"Bryce can't inherit," Brand ducked her head, and Alistair could see her blinking rapidly to fight back tears.

"And why is that?" The question bore the weight of suspicion, to which Brand was oblivious.

"Because he's...when we were...Bryce has magic, Fergus. He's a _mage_," she refused to look at her brother, so she didn't see the way his jaw tightened. "Please, don't tell anyone. We're the only ones that know. And Anders."

Fergus started to pace the length of the fireplace, his broad shoulders stiff and his brow furrowed. For what seemed like forever, he paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. Brand and Alistair watched him, Alistair growing frustrated and Brand losing her patience.

"Fergus! Will you stop and say something?" _Something_ came out slightly strangled and Fergus responded to that, whipping around.

"Before we proceed, I need you to tell me the truth...," his breathing was shallow, and sweat was turning his dark hair black at the edges, causing it to cling to his cheeks and forehead. "Is Bryce Teagan's son?"

"_What_?" Brand stood, crimson flushing her face and neck. "Are you implying that...? You _are_! Do you think I would _do_ such a thing and _lie_ about it for all these years?"

"I don't know what you would do to protect him, Brand. To protect both of them," Fergus moved closer, the distance between a mere few feet. "I know that you never wanted to marry Teagan, and I know that, without Anders, you would be dead a hundred times over, and Bryce as well. But I also know how close you've been since the beginning, and what you went through with the Chantry when you conscripted him. He also told me about your _betrothal_."

"He _told_ you?" This sent her reeling back.

"You're _betrothed_?" Alistair didn't even attempt to hide his surprise and the bare amount of jealousy that colored it. "Since when?"

"Since the other night..," she was holding her stomach. "Fergus, I _swear_ to you- until this week, Teagan was the only man I slept with after the Blight. Bryce is _definitely_ his son. Besides, I couldn't have a child with Anders if I _wanted_ to. Grey Wardens _can't_, not together."

"She's telling the truth. Even with a non-Warden, it's hard for a Warden to conceive," Alistair ignored the way Brand was looking at him, her mind obviously going elsewhere for a few seconds. If Alistair knew her, she was thinking of the night he'd shared that bit of information, the realization that they'd never even have _that_ normalcy settling over them like a scratchy blanket that she'd attempted to kick away with a few hour's worth of vigorous lovemaking.

"OK. I believe you, but there are so many rumors circulating right now, Brand. You have _no_ idea."

"Oh, you'd be surprised at what I know," she found her seat again. "Not only did Anders and I have a torrid affair, Anders might have had some involvement in Teagan's death. Right?"

"Right," Fergus crossed his arms over his chest. "Brand, I don't know what to tell you right now. I've been receiving reports of upheaval in the bannorn for months. It's all vague and hard to fit together. There have been accidental deaths, disappearing seneschals, assassination attempts, burglaries and blackmail. I trust you've spoken with Zevran?"

She nodded.

"I don't know if I completely trust him, but it's the only thing that makes any sense. This can't all be coincidence, and now there's this _hole_...if they can get Bann Loren in as Arl of Redcliffe, Maker only knows how many more houses will be corrupted by their promises of power. It could also cause massive backlash if Zevran manages to remove the infiltrators. It could be viewed as retaliation and pinned on anyone, including us."

Brand looked ill again.

"Bann _Loren_? I thought he alienated the entire Landsmeet during the Blight."

"What? By standing with Loghain and Howe even after Howe killed his wife and son just for being our guests? For taking up arms against his fellow Fereldans? All the more reason why his sudden popularity is distressing," Fergus began bouncing his fist off of the mantle, frustration set in his shoulders. "It would be a coup for them, Brand. If no one opposes him, he's in for certain. I can appoint you, but you'll need support from as many banns as possible. You're popular, even with these rumors, and you've done an outstanding job administering the lands of Amaranthine. I can get you the votes you need, but you have to do _everything_ you can to keep that support, even after the Landsmeet."

Brand had been nodding along, her hands twisting in her lap the only thing that hinted at the turmoil she must be feeling.

"I suppose you're about to suggest how I can go about doing that?" Her voice was hard.

"Brand, you didn't really think you could _marry_ him, did you?" Fergus sounded very much the big brother, gently exasperated rather than condescending "Besides the nobility's resistance to allowing a mage that close to power, the rumors about him and Teagan's death started almost immediately. And they'll persist no matter what. It's a _scandal_ and you know how people cling to those."

"All it would take is one person to bear false witness against him," Alistair kept his voice low. He was remembering a less beloved mage in a less unhappy situation. "He probably wouldn't even have an opportunity to defend himself. It would be execution or Aeonar. Best case scenario would be Weisshaupt, but that's assuming whoever finds him is willing to give the Wardens a chance to intervene."

"Never mind the fact that he'd be considered an apostate for leaving the Wardens, if you were thinking about bringing him as a healer. Even now, the Circle would never approve him for the position, which would mean another headache for Anora and the First Warden," Fergus frowned. "I would suggest sending him back to the Vigil immediately, but the only person who cares about your survival more than me is him and you _need_ the protection."

"So that's it?" Brand's focus was on her hands, her jaw clenching and unclenching. "Prejudice and outright lies and _conveniences_ win? I could risk an uprising or his life just by taking him as my husband and that seems _reasonable_ to the both of you?"

"It's not reasonable, Brand. And it's not fair. But there's too much already at risk here. Do you really want to hand Ferelden over to assassins, after everything you did to protect it? Even without that threat, the nobility is spread too thin as it is. We need someone strong in Redcliffe, for morale and logistical reasons. I've thought this though a hundred times since learning of Eamon's death, and it's the only path I can see. You're just the best person for the job. If I could make it easier on you, I would," Fergus' voice went rough with sincerity. "If I knew of a way for you to stay in Amaranthine, or for you to be with Anders...but I don't. I'm sorry."

She remained silent, shoulders hunched forward and teeth working madly on her lower lip. Alistair expected tears, but none came.

"This is what I expected, so I don't know why it hurts so badly," there was something strangely insubstantial about her now, like she had ceased to be real at some point in the conversation. "What about Bryce? Anders was going to teach him how to hide his magic, at least until he's old enough to conscript into the Wardens. I don't trust anyone else to do it and the Tower _isn't_ an option...not at his age."

Fergus ran his large hands through his hair, obviously uncomfortable even knowing about his nephew's illicit nature.

"I can't tell you what to do with your son, Brand. I know that, after what happened with Connor, you are well aware of the risks inherent in training him outside of the Circle. But Anders _is_ a capable mage and, from what I've seen, a trustworthy guardian," Fergus blinked hard, and Alistair saw his throat moving in silence for a few beats. "Have you considered allowing him to squire? He's a bit young, but you could always say that you've already started his education at the Vigil and you don't want to interrupt it."

It seemed a sensible plan, Alistair thought. But _sensible_ was no comfort to a woman who was confronting a very real separation from her own child.

"He would be so far away," she spoke at a bare whisper. "I would hardly get to see him, but... But he would be with Anders, and it _is_ the only home he's ever known. He'd get to grow up amongst familiar faces. He'd be well trained, well educated and well cared for. And he'd be _free_."

Alistair's heart broke for her at that moment, as she calmly pulled apart her own, every reason another step away from happiness.

She nodded again and it was done, the road cleared for travel. What should have been relief was hollow in the worst sense of the word as Alistair and Fergus gathered themselves and left her alone, at her quiet request.

There was no comfort that either could offer her- no words that could heal a person just stripped bare of all measure of joy and normalcy from a life that had been short on both for so long.

* * *

Brand had no idea how long she'd been alone, only that she'd managed to finish off two large wooden cups full of the finest whiskey she'd every had the privilege of stealing.

Now she was half asleep, but fully restless. Even her skin was tense, sparks moving across as she stretched and moved and tried to get comfortable on the settee in the library. Part of her wanted to return to her room, but _Anders_ would be there and there was nothing in her that was ready to end _that_, or to _think_ about ending that, so she threw herself across the couch, rubbing along it for a moment in the hopes that it would placate the million tiny itches that seemed to be rioting on her skin.

Instead it reminded her of all the other times she'd been in this room, tipsy or flat out drunk and on her back. As it was with young Lady Cousland, the cheerful seductress who threw out lines without compunction and reveled in _any_ success, memories from that point in her life were more painful than anything.

She missed _that girl_ on nights like this. _That girl_ would hardly know what she'd just given away. _That girl_ would be under someone, or on top of someone, or with more than one someones. _She_ wouldn't be rubbing against the couch like a cat in heat, or thinking sad thoughts about _anything_.

Closing her eyes, she tried to remember the last person she'd been with here. _Teagan_. Her eyes reopened and she sighed. _There is _nothing_ sexy about fantasizing about your dead husband. _

As if willed there by her own drunken lust, Colleen Hopewell was standing over her.

Time seemed to contract, and Brand was young again as the other woman took a seat on the settee, carefully lifting Brand's head into her lap, her fingers immediately going to loosen Brand's dark hair from its carefully pinned braid.

_Colleen is so beautiful._ She remembered that afternoon _or was it years ago_, how she'd thought the same thing and _thinking_ someone was beautiful meant that it was worth at least _trying_ to catch their attention.

The worst that could happen would be a _no_.

Actually, the _worst_ that could happen was they'd spend a few hours fucking like mad things only for the fun to be interrupted by men with swords and arrows.

Brand could have easily tripped herself up thinking of Dairren, which was another reason she was so hesitant to return to her room. Her doorway was the threshold, the portal between being a carefree girl who could waste hours and days chasing pleasure and being a woman with a purpose, the purpose being killing, or campaigning, or deciding the best way to parcel out happiness so that there was none left over for herself.

"I'm insufferable tonight," her speech was slurred, but Colleen understood, her head bowing low until her mouth touched Brand's, her lips the softest things in the world, while her small hands trailed along Brand's bared throat with the lightness of feathers.

There was some dim awareness that Brand shouldn't be doing this, not now. Anders would be waiting for her and until they saw each other again he was her _betrothed_. And even when he had no special status ascribed to him, he would still be the man she loved. The _one_ she loved.

The one she'd _always_ love, as surely as she'd known anything in her entire life.

But her mind was fumbling these thoughts and there was this: Colleen sliding her hand down the top of Brand's bodice, the sensation of her fingertips searching along the curve of Brand's breast enough to placate some of that infernal _itching_. Her tongue darted out to tease Brand's lips until they parted and _teasing_ turned into something deep and eager. _Urgency_ took over and Brand's chin was tilting back to ratchet up the intensity, _nothing_ being thought of, or known, or worried over.

She didn't hear Cavin come in, but she felt his palm on her thigh, the pressure of it somehow reassuring. She'd never actually slept with _him_, so no memory opened itself to her the way it did with Colleen. It _seemed _reasonable that this _could_ have happened, her hips raising as he pulled her skirt up to her waist and Colleen breaking contact with Brand long enough to offer her husband a long and lingering kiss not inches away from her, the _sound_ of their intimacy both isolating and erotic.

This was a _moment_ and_ that girl_ was very happy, wherever she might be lurking like a ghost in the corners of a brain dimmed by sorrow, loss, and lots and _lots_ of alcohol.

_Brand_ was working her way towards happiness _of a sort_ as Cavin parted her bared thighs with a practiced touch while Colleen's mouth, nice but not nearly as smart as Brand's, turned its attentions to plying at Brand's nipples through the thin fabric of her silk dress.

_Anders will come looking for you soon._

Her breath caught as Cavin began to work himself between her legs and her own hand went out in search of anything that could be clumsily groped.

No matter _what_ she was doing when he found her, he was going to be disappointed in the end. Like the way her own life was limping towards the inevitability of _alone_, so was their short-lived love affair _hurtling_ towards obsolescence.

At least _this_ way he'd get a good story out of it.


	37. Watching

**Note From Surely: **In the course of writing this chapter, which was ostensibly supposed to span the time from a few days after Anders' Joining to the present, I realized that I was having a rare amount of fun with it. So instead of one chapter, there will be two.

This is, obviously, the first and is mostly mindless fluff (you've been warned!) and starts immediately where Interim: Run ends.

Thanks again to Sandtigress for being my best girl and a special thanks to Jenn, Mel, Addai, Zyanic, Ria and Lady Jess for their general awesomeness. Also, as there is some dialogue lifted straight from Awakening, I have to give credit to BioWare for that (and their characters and their world, both things that I can't seem to leave alone). Also also, thank you all for reading and/or reviewing!

* * *

Fighting a proud smirk as he walked, half-naked, from his commander's chamber, Anders was entertaining the idea of bypassing _his_ room altogether and heading straight to breakfast. Despite what should be a delicate state of affairs in his stomach, and never mind the sheer quantity of food he'd eaten last night, he was _starving_.

Then he remembered the dwarf's smart comment about his manliness and figured that showing up in a silk dressing gown wouldn't leave the _best_ of impressions to that end, so he ducked into the room to which he'd been assigned yesterday morning.

He had to admit, it was strange to think of _his_ room. In the tower he'd shared a room with some bumblefuck named Hammond. _That _guy was the reason why escape attempt number four had failed so spectacularly. _Hammond_ claimed it was all retaliation for the fact that he'd awoken, on more than one occasion, to Anders _entertaining_ some nameless woman beside him, having fallen into the wrong bed.

But Anders knew he was just jealous.

His room in the Vigil was small, the single bed barely fitting lengthwise along the far wall, but it had everything he needed. Like a bed. _Too bad it's not bigger_. He pulled the door shut behind him and leaned back, his hand finding itself twisting into the fabric of his silk dressing gown.

Not _his_ silk dressing gown, but the one he wore.

He pulled the fabric; it was smooth against his mouth and smelled vaguely of soap and roses. Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure a very specific image- his Commander's breasts bared as she slid this garment down her arms. It had been a fleeting glimpse, but he was a creative man. All he needed was an _idea_ and he could reconstruct the rest. Reconstruct and augment and perhaps even come up with a personal history and _names_.

But for some reason, he wasn't seeing her breasts. Or her legs. Or her _backside_. It was the same as it had been since the night she'd arrived- a smile that flashed with lightning quickness and brilliance to illuminate a face that went from arresting to gorgeous with that simple curving of lips.

"How _disappointing_," he began pulling the robe off, ignoring the way that it was less disappointing than it was _distressing_. What kind of man thought of a woman's _smile_ just minutes after he'd seen her almost entirely naked? "A bumblefuck like _Hammond_, that's who."

* * *

Despite what _she_ might have said, being a Grey Warden was fairly awesome so far.

Sure, the walking was getting old. And the getting lost. _And_ the hours wasted to looting.

"Does she really expect to find anything worthwhile in _there_?"

The Commander was crouched and poking her sword in the nooks of a recently deceased genlock. She'd asked Oghren and Anders to start on the other bodies, but they'd chosen to prop themselves up on a nearby fence and watch her instead.

Watching _her_ was the best part of the job.

He'd told her he would, until she had weaned herself off of that _trick_ with the pain. And at first he'd only been watching to learn her body language in battle. Then, even after he'd realized that she favored her entire left side, stood with her bottom jutting out just so, and gritted her teeth when something was _seriously_ wrong, he _kept_ watching because it pleased him to do so.

She was graceful, surprisingly so considering the amount of brute force she used in battle. He'd never seen anyone fight the way she did. The templars he'd seen in action were ponderous and depended as much on their shields as they did their swords or maces. Brand was incredibly fast, slicing through whatever got in her way with her twin blades and, when confronted with multiple targets, she would _really_ go, spinning and dodging and sometimes even jumping over attempted strikes. It was an intensely physical way to handle things and she regularly emerged with more cuts and bruises than the rest of them _combined_.

And he then he would heal her while she stood patiently, embracing the waves of magic that overtook her. Sometimes she even smiled while he did it, her clear green eyes bright in appreciation of his services.

Maybe _that_ was the best part, the smiles of appreciation instead of sneers or annoyance. Or it would be, if it didn't require she be injured in the first place. Truth be told, he was starting to think she allowed herself to be hurt _more_ because he was there. He tried to not contemplate it too much, telling himself that it worked out well because being indispensible to the commander could only be a _good_ thing for someone who wanted to keep his current position and the freedoms that came with it.

Those freedoms were _endless_. Walking outside, running on the roof at night, drinking in taverns, sleeping wherever he wanted (his commander's bed excluded), sleeping with almost whoever he wanted (the taint made him _desperate_ on that front), telling stupid jokes all the time and being obnoxious about the Circle and how much it _sucked _and with no templars there to give him grief for _any_ of it.

He also had the freedom to lounge on fences and chat with smelly dwarves who were proving to be more complex that they might appear at the outset.

Not that he _liked_ Oghren. For one thing, _smelly_, and for another, _belchy_. He also had a terrible tendency to interfere with moments that Anders would prefer be Oghren-free. Like with the redhead wench in the tavern in Amaranthine, and with the commander earlier that day on the road, when a loud declaration of _By the tits of my Ancestors, I could take a shit_ had interrupted what was proving to be a rather illuminating conversation about the mage rebellion during the Blight.

_Illuminating_ because Brand was totally on the mages' side. _Openly_, even.

"Hold that thought," Anders wasn't really paying attention to what the dwarf had been saying. Probably something about ale or screwing or the misery of being married. Anders went over to where Brand had moved on to an emissary, her swords slicing easily at its primitive robes to reveal a small satchel full of potions and a handful of gemstones.

"These are worthwhile, I think," she dropped the gems into Anders' outstretched hands. "Consider them your pay for keeping the fence upright."

"Oh, sarcasm. Very nice," he followed her to the next darkspawn corpse. "Don't you have a husband who can afford to buy you these sorts of things?"

She didn't look up, her focus on a pale bone dagger that the hurlock kept tucked in its boot.

"This doesn't look like darkspawn craft..." she examined it for a few moments before tucking it in _her_ boot."We need money. If we're going to have enough to rebuild the keep and _not_ suck our vassals dry with taxes, this is one way to earn it."

The hurlock ended up having almost 10 sovereigns on him. Brand kept those to herself.

"You'll have to do more than hold up a fence if you want that much gold."

"My _lady._ Little did you know but _doing _is my specialty. All _you _have to do is ask_..._or just show up with a _smile_," this came out incredibly _right_, and he braced himself for a slap that would have been inevitable were this the tower. Brand just laughed, tossed him a single coin, and walked back to where Oghren was still yammering on to himself about something called a bronto and _why would you want to grease one up_?

Anders' fingers curled around the gold and he watched her go.

Her _laughter_ was definitely the best part of the job.

* * *

He had not remarked on the way her cheeks went pink when he asked, jokingly, if she was jealous of Namaya. Because, if she really _was_ jealous of Namaya, it certainly wasn't because of _looks_.

So now he was _really_ watching her, looking for _other_ signs of jealousy _or attraction_.

"Did you know you chew your lip when you're thinking?" They were sneaking into the warehouse Namaya had directed them towards, a dank and dusty place full of crates that he knew Brand would be compelled to rummage through. Not that _he_ cared. He was still giddy over the fact that he'd somehow tricked her into helping him destroy his phylactery.

Actually, and _this_ was the weird part, he hadn't tricked her at all. She'd just...wanted to do it. She was an odd one, to be certain. Not that _he_ was complaining.

"Do you know you named your kitten Ser _Pounce_-a-lot?" Her eyes sparked at him and he smirked back.

"What a _terrible _insult. I expect better from you. Besides, you know you love my _pussy_. Or is it the other way around?"

She flicked him smartly on the forearm, and he was very close to handsy retaliation when they heard it- the sound of plate on plate. It didn't echo here the way it had in the tower, but Anders _knew_ and before any more fun could be had, _she_ was lumbering in front of them, _lumbering_ despite the fact that she was almost a head shorter than Brand, her dark eyes shining with self-righteousness.

"And here I almost believed the infamous Anders wouldn't take the bait," Rylock's mouth curled in smug satisfaction.

She could afford to be satisfied, she had three templars with her, while he only had Brand.

Also, _infamous_?

"Yes, I suppose I should have known it would be _you_," he kept his voice mocking, not wanting to betray many things like concern and disappointment. _Four against two...those odds are good if four is wolves or darkspawn, or drunken bandits. But when four is templars and half of two is a mage? Bad. Very bad. _Incredibly_ bad._

The worst, to be honest, because he could be rendered useless in a heartbeat.

He almost missed Brand compliment him, but he couldn't possibly miss Rylock's sneer as she calmly ordered his arrest.

Wait, maybe _that_ was the worst.

"What? No! You can't arrest me. Queen Anora allowed my Conscription!" He hated the desperate edge that found its way to his outcry but, _Maker_, this could _not_ be happening.

"The Chantry's authority supersedes the crown in the matter. You cannot hide within the Grey Warden's ranks," the smug had grown to almost unbearable levels. He turned to Brand, not bothering to hide the fear that she might agree.

"As the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, I didn't _need_ the crown's approval to Conscript him," Brand glared down at Rylock in defiance. "And the Chantry _certainly_ has no authority over Grey Wardens. Especially Grey Wardens who have committed no crimes. Unless poking around a warehouse that is the property of _my_ arling is a crime...which would be _strange_."

"Please don't antagonize her," he laughed nervously. Brand's face went fierce.

"He stays with us. And that's _final_." Nothing in her tone suggested she was open to further discussion, and Rylock staggered back in rage.

"I do not know how you inspire such loyalty Anders, but it will avail you naught," the templars behind her had already drawn their weapons. Andraste's_ ass, _there were so many weapons in this room and all he had was a staff and _Brand_. "Now you come with us."

Brand grabbed his arm and began to back up, "For the love of the Maker, stay out of it. No offensive spells. Just heal me whenever you can and keep your distance from them."

Before he could respond with _this is insanity_, she was letting out a scream that never failed to turn him to ice on the inside and diving back towards the stunned templars, her blades a blur as she thrust them into any opening she could see, each strike more ferocious than the last.

The fight was brief, but brutal. Two of the templars went down quickly, but Rylock kept landing blows against Brand's ribcage, her mace eliciting the unmistakable crunch of bones breaking.

_I could have this over with in two seconds._ Heal. _A fireball, a lightning bolt, an explosion of templar because we know how fun _those _are._

_Crack_.

The mace caught again and Brand was down, but so was Rylock. And Brand's head was fully attached, while Rylock's...not so much.

_Oh_. That's _disgusting_.

"Are you _insane_?" He was at her side and trying to remove her cuirass, so he could see the injuries that should be screaming at him but weren't even _whimpering_.

"Just heal me," blood dripped from her mouth and he caught her face between his hands and _searched_.

Nothing.

"You _are_ insane," magic engulfed her. "What were you _thinking_?"

She remained silent for a few long moments, staring at him contemplatively through the haze of his spell.

"I was thinking that it would be safer this way," she winced as he poked experimentally at her side through her armor. "You had no hand in killing those templars, there will be no signs of offensive magic having been used. If the Chantry decides to come down, they'll have to come down on _me_, which..."

"Good luck with _that_," he finished for her and pulled his hands clear, for safety's sake. "Thank you. You stood by me, and I appreciate that."

_Thank you_ was possibly the lamest thing he could have said, and so pointless in the face of what she'd really done.

He found his feet and offered his aid in getting her to hers.

"I wasn't lying when I said that you've made an excellent Grey Warden. And you're my friend, Anders," she smiled crookedly. "Friends stick up for each other."

He watched her for a moment, trying not to see how awkwardly she stood, or hear the way her teeth ground when she wasn't talking.

"I..." _want you to know that you can share your pain with me…you don't always _have_ to bear the brunt._ "I...guess they do."

He chastised himself for his cowardice as she began her rounds of corpses and crates, helping her with some of the heavier items. They'd exhausted every corner of the place, coming away with some well-preserved robes, which she immediately changed into, and other magey bits. No matter how long they looked, there was nothing resembling a phylactery to be found. _Damn it all, this was a waste of time and energy. _

"I'm sorry, Anders," she began rifling through their loot. "Here. This might make you feel better."

She was offering him the ugliest cowl he'd ever seen. And, having lived in the tower for over ten years, he'd seen his share of ugly cowls. But _this _was a special offender, quilted with pastel fabrics, adorned with tassels and...

"Is that a _bird_ skull?"

"Put it on, I bet you'll look _smashing_."

"Of course I will, I look good in everything," he tugged it on, grinning as widely as he could and probably appearing quite demented in the process.

"Ha, ha…ow," she wrapped her arm around her side and cringed. "_Brilliant_."

"I'm so going to win a prize on silly hat day," they pushed out of the warehouse, the Market Place in front of them almost empty as dusk settled over Amaranthine. "Your stupid helmet has taken its last trophy, my lady."

"See, the helmet is _awesome_ and not silly. I also have Wade at my beck and call. I could get a new helmet made with _bigger _horns. Oh! And the horns could have horns!" Her hands were up by her head, fingers splayed to indicate all the _horns_.

"Then you'd _officially_ be the horniest woman in Ferelden!" It shot out, like so many things, and Anders expected retribution. Not only for _saying_ it, but knowing that bit of business in the first place.

But she just laughed again and shrugged it off.

"This 'months away in Amaranthine' gig would have been better if Amaranthine had a decent brothel. _Maker_, when Sigrun and I cased the joint a few weeks ago, she likened the whole place to a bronto den, and that was the _truth_," she shuddered, ignoring the way Anders was regarding her with...interest.

"_You_ would go to a brothel?"

"Well…probably not _now_, but I've _been_ to a brothel."

"_Lies_. I'm going to ask Oghren," his eyes ran the length of her and she stared back, eyebrow cocked.

"Be prepared for quite a tale. The encounter with Isabela is actually funnier, but he really likes the one where he gets to shout, 'She needs at least two more elves!'"

Anders felt his jaw go somewhere around his ankles. _She is lying. She _has_ to be lying_.

"Then let's go _now_," he grabbed her elbow, forgetting all about his phylactery and her injuries in the excitement. His mind was lost to thoughts of her in a whole series of compromising positions, some of which were with _him_. "I don't care how _skanky_ it is, I just want to see you in action."

"I don't think that would be terribly appropriate...do you?" There was the faintest gleam of uncertainty in her eyes, a pinprick of _and we're probably not the best pair to make even _that_ call_. "I mean, I _did_ just kill a few templars_. _To go out celebrating at a whorehouse with my best mage _probably_ wouldn't go over so well were it to get back to my husband. Or to _anyone_ with a shred of decency."

"Like _me_? Because I _love_ the idea, myself. But I'll settle for an ale on your copper instead, before we meet up with the others at camp."

They meandered towards the tavern, enjoying the early evening as it settled over them. He realized, with a jolt, that his hand was _still_ holding her elbow. _Now _that's _not suspicious_. He tried to remove it in a _casual_ way, a way that wouldn't signal how guilty he felt, mostly because of his not so innocent thoughts only minutes ago. Instead of doing it right, he just _dropped_ his arm, allowing it to _flop_ so that the side of his hand knocked firmly against her backside in the process.

"I'll gladly buy you an ale, Anders," her tone was light when he'd expected admonishment. "But maybe hands off? Unless you're healing, of course. And my ass is _fine_, thanks for the concern."

His cheeks grew warm under her gaze and she smirked in triumph. _This _has_ to be revenge for the Namaya thing_. He felt the corners of his mouth pulling up and she was already deflecting his comeback with a roll of her eyes and a _you're _so_ predictable_.

Not so predictable, actually. He allowed her to get a step or two ahead so he could _really_ smile, and where she couldn't see him.

Because Maker knew that it was one thing for her to think he was going to _grope _her at the slightest provocation, but quite another for her to have any idea how much he just _enjoyed _her, even beyond her insanity and the fineness of her ass.

* * *

Velanna was an attractive woman but she was as strident as anyone Anders had ever met. Strident and _mean_. She'd also led them into a trap that had resulted in their capture and imprionment by an incredibly spindly mage _thing_ that wore a mask which _had_ to be covering all manners of complexional weirdness.

There may have been _hooks_ in flesh involved. Anders really was _not_ in the mood to think about it.

He wasn't in the mood to do _anything_ but fret about his commander. He, Velanna and Nathaniel had been stripped of their belongings and forced into coarse and poorly made clothes that smelled like rot and made Anders' skin recoil at every point of contact (and this _would_ happen on a day that he'd decided against throwing on _some_ manner of smallclothes.)

Brand, however, was not with them.

Anders paced the length of their cell, his hand running along the rusting bars. He and Velanna had been warned to not use their magic and Anders was willing to heed this suggestion. As long as that_ thing_ had their commander, they'd have to be careful to not do anything that might risk her safety.

After what seemed like forever, the mage drifted back and suspended in the air in front of him like a creepy, human sized marionette, was Brand. Without even having to be told, Anders and his companion prisoners moved to the back of the cell so that Brand's body could be deposited in a heap on the floor just inside the door.

They'd not even bothered to give her clothing, so she was _naked_ and in a heap on the floor. Because she was just dropped there her limbs were strewn oddly, one arm behind her head and her hips twisted so far that her lower half was practically backwards and it was all so _exposed_...

Anders realized that Velanna and Nathaniel were both looking very deliberately _away_, and realized that he should, too.

But he _couldn't_ because watching her was his thing. And her smile and her laughter was his thing and, he realized as he tried to look away, she was _entirely_ his thing.

Which was bad. She wasn't his _at all_, so he shouldn't be feeling like this- worried for her and protective and angry at the bastards who would treat her so inhumanely.

Without thinking, he shuffled forward to kneel beside her, his shirt coming off quickly and eliciting surprised noises from Velanna and _did she really think I would do _that_, much less with people watching?_

Being careful to not jostle her, he slipped his shirt over Brand's head and maneuvered her arms in one at a time, settling her in a more comfortable position in the process. It took some finesse to get past her breasts without inadvertently brushing against one, but he managed to work the garment completely on so that it covered the important parts _and_ kept most of her skin out of contact with the cold floor. If they'd been alone, he may have even held her, or propped her bare legs on his own, or...

_If they'd been alone_ was a dangerous path right now and it scared him how easy it was to take the first few steps and how much he _wanted_ to be heading down it.

As he came away, he saw Nathaniel watching him, his brows pulled together in consideration. If he didn't know better, Anders would almost guess that the other man was impressed that he could be so thoughtful.

Anders _wished_ it was just thoughtfulness but, even as his thoughts ordered themselves and the _bad Anders_ faded, he knew better than that.

* * *

Anders ate with Oghren because, in addition to finding the dwarf increasingly companionable, he would occasionally talk about Brand _before_ and while _most _of his stories were ridiculous, there were some true gems.

And she hadn't been lying about the _brothel _stories.

When they were on the road, he'd try to lure information out of them both. It made their endless marches go a faster until Oghren would say too much and Brand's eyes would narrow slightly and they'd stop because she'd asked them to.

Sort of. With her _eyes_.

Now Nathaniel was working with _his_ eyes, watching her at the opposite end of the dining room table where she was going over arlessa-y things with Varel.

"I remember Bann Teagan," Howe turned to Oghren, who was drowsing over what had to be his sixth tankard of ale since they'd sat down. No stories would be forthcoming that evening, not anything remotely comprehensible, anyway. "He and Arl Eamon went hunting with my father every now and again. I…can't picture him with the commander."

Oghren snorted.

"_Commander_ can't picture him with the commander," he started running his tongue along the inside of his empty mug, the accompanying slurping noise too much for Anders to bear at the moment.

"Andraste's flaming sword, dwarf. They'll bring you more ale," Anders' hand went up and the mug was instantaneously coated in ice, Oghren's tongue securely frozen in place. "Don't worry," the dwarf's eyes were dark with drunken concern. "Everyone here knows that one unintelligible grunt means 'more ale' and two unintelligible grunts means 'I just wet myself'."

Oghren grunted twice, loudly, and Brand's head shot up, a frown creasing her brow.

_Behave_, that look said. _All of you_.

Anders returned to his dinner, but Nathaniel kept looking.

"Planning your future together?" Howe's pale eyes shifted towards Anders in silent acknowledgement. "I imagine family gatherings would be _awkward_."

"You know, if we're lucky the new commander will have a dim view on those such as you, Anders."

_What new commander?_

"Those such as me? What do you mean? Smart? Handsome? Fan_tas_tic in bed?" He said that last part quite loudly and offered Brand a broad smile when she glanced up, her expression bemused.

"Mages," a sneer curled Howe's lips. "Or incurable smartasses who can't even deal with _imagined_ competition, never mind the futility of their affection."

Now _that_ stung a bit.

"What do you have against mages? Besides the fact that we're inherently superior in all ways."

Oghren, having been freed from his mug through the miracle of his own hot breath, opened his mouth to speak and Anders' hand went up again, paralyzing him on the spot.

"_See_? It comes in handy."

Howe stood down, his face falling into a more neutral expression.

"I'll admit that it does."

"I think I'll advise my replacement to be wary of all _three_ of you," Brand rolled her eyes as she called at them down the table, not seeing how the casual way she said _my replacement_ landed on Anders like a punch to the throat.

* * *

The Chantry was full of sorrow.

Amaranthine was at the mercy of a darkspawn seige and, even though they'd won _this_ battle with minimal casualties, more would arrive by dawn. The residents who were here, some injured, most mourning the loss of their homes or someone they knew, had no idea how close they'd come to being burned to the ground, razed with the rest of the city.

Anders had gotten hit by an arrow that went clear through his forearm; it was by far the most painful injury he'd sustained since he'd become a Grey Warden but he was able to close the twin wounds well enough and Nathaniel had helped him dress it before they moved on to help the rest of those injured in the fighting.

With that done, all they could do was wait. Anders chose to roam the Chantry, trying to not give in to the despair of those around him, or get trapped in the corner by an elder or laysister who just wanted to tell him how very much the Maker's work he was doing as a Grey Warden.

After tonight, with the waves of vicious darkspawn and men like Garavel ready to walk away from innocents, Anders was starting to think the Maker was not an entity whose work he cared to be doing.

He wandered through the doors he knew would take him to the Revered Mother's quarters. The Wardens had been given the space to rest, a row of bedrolls set out on the floor for them. Brand had been offered the bed proper but she refused, unwilling to sleep in more comfort than her men.

"I think it's because you know that there might still be poisoned herbs on her sheets," Anders took a seat next to her on the floor, their backs against the wall. "I can't imagine it would be fun to fight darkspawn with a rash."

"I imagine not. Of course, we could just ask Oghren...," she shook her head, and he noticed the exhausted concern that shadowed her eyes- worry that could not be masked by jokes. "No...I think we best not ask. How's your arm?"

He shifted closer and held it out, "Fine, fine. It hurts a little and hasn't been fully attended to as I've done a _lot_ of healing on others," his gaze went pointedly to her leg, which had been clipped by a shriek. "But I'll survive."

He wrung some drama out of the last and she let out a small chuckle before settling back to thoughtfulness.

"Do you think it's as bad as all that?" He nudged her. "It can't be as terrible as the siege at Denerim, can it? You handled that with no problems...besides being nearly broken in half, of course."

"But I had more armies," her fingers began kneading against her forehead and her jaw twitched. "And I felt better prepared, I guess."

"Well, if you're _that_ worried, maybe you need a distraction," he poked her shoulder. "How 'bout a song?"

"Too loud."

"Dance?"

"Injured leg."

"We could...look for banned books tucked beneath the Revered Mother's mattress and act out scenes...from the filthy ones, of course. Not the ones about dragon cults and ritual sacrifice and whatnot," his brain caught on this idea. "It sounds like fun, some 'we could both be dead tomorrow so we might as well enjoy our last night with mindless debauchery' sex."

For a moment she was silent, her face unreadable.

"You...," she bit her lip. "You really _don't_ want to have sex with me."

This was not a question. He responded by pressing his fingers to her throat.

"Well, you have a _heartbeat_ and you're obviously female...," he leaned a little closer and felt a wave of triumph when she didn't move away. "So...yes. I really _do_."

"I feel so _special_," she frowned and looked towards her hand, at the plain band she'd worn every day since the night he'd met her. "And that's the sort of thing that led to me being married."

"See, it's already awesome just because we _can't_ get married! However, if you're going to sit here and make _excuses_, then I'll just take my offer to someone else," he bumped his knee against hers, praying that he hadn't crossed a line with his joke that wasn't really a joke. _Maybe_.

"If they're inoffensive enough, I might not be opposed to being in the same room," she bumped back and offered him a wry half-smile. "Live vicariously. It seems more _appropriate_, anyway."

He didn't comment, or ask _who _she wanted to live vicariously through. Instead he stayed with her, talking about all the nasty things the Revered Mother probably had stashed in that very room, under loose stones in the floor and inside hollowed out books on her desk. They were very near giddy when Nathaniel and Sigrun rejoined them and they all four settled down to get some rest before the next swarm arrived.

Unable to fall immediately asleep, Anders could sense her in the darkness beside him, barely a foot away and restless.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider? I'd hate for the last thing you thought before you died to be "Maker, I bet it would have been _incredible_.'"

"If it makes you feel better, I'm imagining it right now...," he could hear the smile in her voice. "Only you have a tattoo...and a small scar on your cheek. And maybe a tan."

"Well, I know what I'm doing if we _survive_ this."

She laughed into the darkness and it was a sweet something he could take with him, if it should come to that. And very appropriate.

_Sex, though, would have been better. _

"Heh. You _can_ speak Antivan, can't you?"

_Maybe._

* * *

"I _still_ think this is a bad idea," he was pacing madly around her office while she wrote the letter.

That her office now had a hole the size of a genlock in the wall directly behind her desk was the only _immediate _sign of what had happened here over the past month.

"We've barely accounted for everyone...Oghren needs major rehabilitation and only _you_ can do that," Anders spun around. "And, again, what if the First Warden decides to assign someone who's anti-mage? It'll be back to the tower for me."

_Please don't let me be sent back, especially now that I know _again_ what freedom feels like._

"Don't worry," she folded the letter carefully and slid it into the already prepared envelope. He watched as she poured a small amount of dark blue wax onto the parchment before pressing her signet ring against the already cooling blob. "I'll be sure to pin a note on your robes. _KEEP_, in big block letters."

Ser Pounce-a-lot mewfed insistently.

"And I'll even make a small one for Pounce's collar," she smiled. "You'll be fine, Anders. You're safe with the Wardens."

"No, I'm safe with _you_," he blurted this out and, despite being over the line, it seemed like the right thing to say. "You need me, too. To keep you alive so you can be reckless all over the place. We're a _team_."

"We're a team _in_ _battle_," her eyes were clouded by something he couldn't quite identify. "I think my battling days are behind me now. Teagan will be here in a few days, and I'll go back to Rainesfere with him."

"To spend the rest of your life overseeing kitchen staff and deciding what color floral arrangements to put out in the foyer?" He didn't care how bitter he sounded. "Sounds like an _excellent_ use of your talents. Maybe you'll pop out a few children and you can tell them stories about how you used to be a Grey Warden and an arlessa, and you were able to make a difference in peoples' lives beyond, you know, food and _flowers_."

Brand frowned, her entire face darkening.

"That's not fair, Anders. I don't _want_ to go," she said this as if talking to herself. "I found a purpose here that I didn't think I'd ever find again. And I..."

She paused for several seconds, trailing off while her gaze grew distant and indescribably bereft.

"I have a husband, Anders," her voice was steady when she spoke again. "I can't just say 'I quit being your wife.' It doesn't _work_ that way."

He nodded, realizing that he'd said as much as he was going to be able to say without potentially burning a bridge he truly wanted to keep intact.

"I'll be standing by the door on your way out, waiting for my sign," he scooped up Ser Pounce-a-lot and settled him on his shoulder. "You best not forget _his_, or the curse of mackerel breath will follow you wherever you go."

Her lips twitched, but her eyes remained empty.

"Is the curse that _I_ have mackerel breath, or someone around me does?" It was a concentrated effort to smooth over the tension.

He tilted his head and regarded Pounce closely.

"We'll have to think about that. I might even tell you...if you're _lucky_," he reached forward to touch her desk. "Good night, Brand."

"Hmm? Sorry," she shook her head. "Good night, Anders. I'll see you at breakfast."

He left her distracted, her thumb idly running over the wax seal on the letter that would end her association with the Grey Wardens. Whatever it was that had turned her so suddenly haunted had taken her someplace not even _he_ could reach.

* * *

Anders hadn't planned on being in the yard when the Bann of Rainesfere rode up and, technically, he wasn't. He was actually tucked behind a pile of sandbags on a side porch, his hands exploring beneath the skirts of one of the newly hired maids...

"What was your name again?" He kissed her neck, or tried to, but she pulled away with an indignant noise.

"_Harper_. I've told you like _five_ _times _now," irritation flashed in her brown eyes.

Harper had curly blond hair, an upturned nose and pert little breasts that reminded him of his favorite fling from his apprentice days. He actually could have just stopped there, not being _that_ desperate at the moment. But she was pretty and he didn't want to be in the _yard_ so he moved his left hand just so, letting his fingers get a _little_ warmer, and...

"Oooh," she collapsed against him with a delirious grin and he was back in business.

_Back in business_ until the sound of horses running into the yard distracted her, which was a _small_ blow to the ego.

"Is that the bann?" There were shouts from the knights, including one calling for the Warden-Commander. Anders knew that she was with the others, just inside the inner courtyard.

He _should_ have been with them, but then...he glanced at the girl who was rearranging her skirts to look like she hadn't _just_ had him roaming around under there and _what was her name_? She grabbed his hand and pulled him up. He followed without really wanting to, curiosity getting the best of him.

_How bad could it be, really? _

He stepped out from behind the sandbags and was only a few yards away from where his fellow Wardens stood behind Brand. She wore a green dress, plain but flattering, and her hair was down, falling around her shoulders in dark waves that caught red in the sunlight as she walekd forward to greet her husband.

"He's _handsome_," the girl who should have just let him continue to grope her had her cheek resting dreamily on the wall of sand bags. "I wanna marry a bann...or an arl."

"Why stop there? Why not shoot for the queen...I've seen her. She's a _looker_," but girl was too busy swooning as Lord Manlybeard caught Anders' commander in his arms and planted quite the kiss on her.

And...that made him feel a bit odd, to be honest. Lightheaded and maybe like he'd eaten too many eggs at breakfast and shouldn't have jammed that last spoonful of hash on top.

Brand went up on her toes, her arms around her husband's neck, and he could see the way she was pressing against him and his hands ran the length of her back towards her hips...

_You can stop watching her now._

He turned away, the small cresting of jealousy, because that's exactly what it was, still building in intensity even when he couldn't see them. His brow twitched and he realized that his commander and her husband had parted. Now Bann Teagan was addressing the other Wardens, including Anders.

It was a polite thank you, his voice low and sincere, for their protection of Amaranthine, _and_ the Keep and a declaration that he and Ferelden were honored by their _blah blah blah_.

Anders wanted to point out that it wasn't really a _sacrifice_ to get to do pretty much whatever he wanted when the alternative was incarceration or death.

But the bann had already found Brand's arm and they were sweeping by to run upstairs. Ironic, really that he would make such a speech when he was coming to take their leader away from them. It was perfectly _fine_ for a disgraced lordling, an apostate and a couple of wayward dwarves to devote their lives to the Wardens, but another thing _entirely_ for his blushing bride to do so.

Girl tugged at his robes.

"You wanna finish?" She grinned and pushed her chest towards him.

"Tell the truth, you're going to be thinking about Bann Teagan the entire time, aren't you?" She was already pulling him back to the corner.

"Maybe. Would that bother you? I betcha can't even remember my name."

He kissed her hard, ignoring how _off_ it felt, and when they parted she looked annoyed.

"It's not like it matters, anyway. You're not the _only _one with a healthy imagination. Sometimes names just ruin the illusion."

"You're an ass," she was pulling at his robes, trying to unfasten one of the belts and doing a tediously bad job of it.

_Sigh_. "I do my best," and he took over for her, giving himself over to her fumbly hands and hard breasts for ten minutes of what turned out to be _far_ from his best.

As they recouped he shook off the inkling of _pathetic_. _You have to start somewhere, Anders. Maybe this will be as mediocre as it gets._

_Starting_ was a strange way to think about it, honestly. But things _would_ be different now, and he'd just have to live with it.

And he should probably make a note to quit it with the _watching_.


	38. Waiting

The morning after Teagan's arrival, Anders awoke to Girl in his bed.

She was _not _thrilled when he asked who she was and what she was doing there. He may have told her he didn't like her, but mostly he just didn't care _at all_. He was too busy trying to _not_ think about the night before, and the pictures Oghren had been painting of all the things Brand and her husband could be doing in her room where they'd holed up instead of joining the rest of them for dinner.

His inattention to Girl earned a slap and a flounce and, with her gone, he set to dragging on some clean robes. After a long and rain soaked evening, the sun was out and giving him every indication that he'd missed breakfast.

"I have a feeling it's going to be a cold porridge morning, Ser Pounce-a-lot," the cat rubbed against his leg, pausing only long enough to offer his human a contemplative _mrawr_ before he was streaking out the door Girl had left hanging open in her snit.

Anders lunged into the hallway after Pounce. The cat had taken a liking to the rooftops and Anders was definitely _not_ in the mood to rescue him should he get stuck on the tower again.

Searching the length of the corridor, he saw a flash of orange go into the commander's office and he barged in after, confident that Brand would be off doing wifely things with _Teagan_ and not sitting at her desk, face blank and eyes staring into the distance like she'd fallen victim to one of Anders' own paralysis spells.

Which, because it was one of _those_ kinds of mornings, was _exactly_ what she was doing.

"Brand?" He dropped onto the couch that faced her desk, Pounce immediately finding his lap, headbutting his hand appreciatively as if to say _this is what I wanted all along_.

She looked up and, for a second, something base flared in her eyes. Anders felt it from across the room, a surge of energy that pulsed out of her, moving across his skin, hot and slightly unsettling.

But it was only a second. Then she had her elbows on the desk and her hands were rubbing at her eyes, "I'm sorry, Anders. I'm a little...out of sorts right now."

"Long night with the husband?" It sounded like a different person asked that stupid question, the jocularity painfully forced.

Her hands fell from her face and she laughed a short, bitter laugh.

"I guess you could say that," her eyes wouldn't quite meet his own, which was the most disconcerting thing of all. How much time had they spent together these past months being comfortable with one another? Why the sudden...weirdness?

"Is everything all right?" He leaned forward, pushing Pounce off his lap because everything was _obviously_ not all right and he _hated_ how distressed she looked. "Did something..._bad_ happen?"

He had no idea what _bad_ might be to a woman who'd been nearly snapped in half by a dragon, but he was hoping that it fell well within the usual parameters. Maybe Teagan had made a joke about her nose, or maybe _she_ told _him_ that she rather liked the company of attractive mages.

"I quit being a wife," her voice cut the air like a blade.

Or..._that_.

His breath caught, as if he was afraid that _breathing_ would undo what she'd just said and _everything_ might fall apart and that would be horrible because this had _potential_.

"So you're _not_ going back to Rainesfere?" He tried to keep his tone neutral, not that he could hear himself over the roar of blood in his ears that grew deafening when she pulled an envelope out of her desk and flung it across the room at him. It was addressed to the First Warden and bore the seal of the Warden-Commander of Ferelden in wax which had been picked at and dulled down by distracted fingers. Distracted _perhaps_ by something he'd said, or done or...maybe it was just _him_. It wasn't so farfetched. She seemed to enjoy his company enough and he was handsome and she was beautiful and they were both bright individuals with expansive views on certain human _entanglements_ and...

Brand still looked distressed, her brows drawn together, her teeth visible on the edge of her lip.

"I know you probably don't care right now, but I'm glad you're staying," he found his feet and Pounce immediately darted out of the office, his job finished. "I think you belong here. I know...I know that it wouldn't have felt like home anymore without you."

She nodded slowly, although her eyes only grew more shadowed as she withdrew further into _what_ she had done and, perhaps, _why_.

He left her alone with that, his heart already about to explode as he fell against the corridor wall in order to just get things under control. Even if she was interested in him, and it was far from certain that she was, it wasn't something he could force to happen. He'd have to give her time and distance and a chance to move on.

He'd have to wait.

He _hated_ to wait.

But _waiting_ for something possible was better than _pining_ for something that was never going to happen.

* * *

He made it two weeks before he decided that waiting was a huge waste of time and he was just going to go for it.

_Going for it_ was conversation on the roof, stretched out at her side and pretending to be interested in the stars when all he wanted to be doing was kissing her, _touching_ her, and he had the whole thing planned out:

He'd prop himself up on his elbow, maybe catch her cheek in his hand, and say something utterly inane about the stars in her eyes. Whatever it was, he wasn't entirely committed, would make the soppiest lordling blush.

Brand would roll her eyes and scoff at his efforts.

Then he'd scoff at her cynicism _My lady, how you can cast me aside with such disdain is beyond my comprehension_. _You have _forced_ me to redouble my efforts..._

Then he'd _kiss_ her and everything would be right with the world.

(He had spent the past two weeks convincing himself that the fact that they weren't yet making love at all hours of the day was a mistake of _cosmic_ proportions, and that mistake _needed_ to be rectified.)

He started by asking her about where the stars went when they fell...and then she was talking about a _sword_ because she had some sort of fixation. Undeterred, he took his cue and moved to his side, striking a casual pose and opening his mouth to say the words that...

She was crying.

He wavered for a moment, caught between wanting to try anyway, because he was so certain that this night was supposed to end with her in his arms and he could _feel_ the air between them alive with electricity and there was something of her yearning towards _him_.

It was such a small gap to close, barely more than a few inches, but if she wasn't ready and he _pushed_ then _supposed to_ might not matter.

So he did the only thing he could think of that wasn't kissing: he pressed his finger to her cheek and _healed_.

Her eyelids fluttered in surprise until she realized what he was doing, which made her laugh from her stomach and for a while. Her laughter _always_ had a way of making him feel lucky, even if there was no kissing happening.

He fell onto his back into friendship, convinced that a step away from that had at least been taken. There would be other nights, other lines, and his lips would _always_ be ready to find hers.

* * *

Arriving the day after Anders' mini-success on the roof, the elf had impeccably_ horrible_ timing...in addition to his tattoo, scarred cheek, and tan.

That he was Antivan was just the most _precious_ thing.

Every time Anders would try to get a moment alone with Brand, Zevran would be there, the very picture of languorousness and _where was this guy from, anyway?_ Besides _Antiva_.

Oghren was able to illuminate Anders on the Zevran thing. It was fucked up, of course: Nathaniel's father hired the Crows to kill Brand during the Blight and their failure to do so had given her a wonderful new assassin friend who spoke solely in double entendres and stood _way_ too close to her _all the time_.

It was frustrating, to say the least. It also made it exceedingly easy for Anders to blame Zevran for the day that his cautious optimism came undone with one word that nobody said, but everyone _knew_ meant an end for anything approaching _fun_.

Anders was in the library when they arrived, Brand looking distinctly uncomfortable and the elf, so impossibly sleek that he made _Anders_ feel stodgy, complaining loudly about his _boots_.

"I realize that you can buy me another pair, my dear, but I have a rather nostalgic attachment to these, if you remember," he frowned and pushed Brand towards Anders. "I need _you_ to do something about my Warden."

_His_ Warden?

"Like _what_?" Anders didn't bother to hide his annoyance. "No one can make Brand do anything she doesn't _want_ to. It's like telling a tree to walk over there."

"I'm standing _right_ _here_," Brand's lips pressed into a firm line.

"And looking awful, I might add. How long have you been harfing on the elf's boots?"

"Uh, the past couple of days, maybe," she shrugged.

"_All_ day?" His brow crinkled in concern.

"No, not _all_ day. Usually just late morning, early afternoon. And I should have..._oh_."

It was almost funny how it all hit them at the exact same time. Zevran began to chuckle, Brand turned the deepest shade of red a human could _possibly_ turn and Anders folded up inside. He couldn't even _look_ at her, so tight was his chest as he asked himself how it could have happened and _how long would it be before she was leaving again because if she wasn't going to stay as a _wife_, then she certainly wouldn't want to stick around as a..._

He couldn't finish the thought, and he couldn't allow himself to think about the way she was watching _him_ now.

The elf escorted her out, his laughter seeming a bit cruel in light of everything and Anders continued to contemplate how utterly cold he was feeling in the absence of what he'd been feeling before.

He'd had hopes for her and him. Now all he had were tendrils of grief that curled into his mind and how could it hurt so badly to lose something that had never been his in the first place? And for the second time, too.

"_Fuck_."

* * *

The news that Brand would remain as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and the surge of relief that brought Anders, was completely ruined by the news that Bann Teagan of Rainesfere would be relinquishing his lands and joining his wife as the Arl of Amaranthine.

Not that Teagan was unpleasant in any way that Anders could see. He was just more the type of man to impress women and guys like Nathaniel and Garavel, men who could talk to him about hunting and fighting and politics.

Anders was fairly certain that the only thing that he and Teagan would have in common was the fact that they'd both shared Brand's bed at least once and _now_ they were _both_ avoiding her.

Actually, Teagan was merely avoiding her while Anders was trying to forget she existed, at least until he could once again kiss a pretty girl without it feeling wrong. And how frustrating was it that a pretty girl he'd never actually kissed had set some sort of mental benchmark for such?

It was _very_ frustrating.

Also frustrating was how she insisted on getting prettier by the day, her face softening and her lank becoming curves as her pregnancy progressed. For a few months, when her stomach remained relatively flat, it was easy to forget what it was exactly that kept him from her, especially now that she was easily the most beautiful thing he saw every day that he saw her.

One day, when he'd somehow gotten cornered by Nathaniel and Teagan and a discussion they were having about absolutely nothing that was any interest to him, Brand appeared from nowhere and he felt an overwhelming flash of _finally! Where has she _been_ all this time_? But she looked as if she had been crying and she was here to speak to Teagan, who seemed entirely too put out by her presence.

_Then_ Teagan refused her nervous invitation to come and talk to her in their room. Anders fought back the urged to interject a smart _Why not, my lord? After all, you've gotten into as much trouble as you possibly can on _that_ front_. He remained silent, however, as his _smartness_ would only be to mask his own discomfort at the way her stomach was definitely swollen, but the rest of her _beyond_ was so lush that he wanted to lay her down and spend the afternoon exploring her with his eyes, his fingers, his _tongue_ and...

"I have to go," he stood suddenly, Nathaniel and Teagan already having fallen back into animated conversation even as Brand slunk out of the room, cheeks pink with embarrassment. He followed her, unable to _not_ because he was suddenly in desperate need to _do_ something, to take her someplace comfortable, to be with her where he could make her laugh and moan and _ache_ for him the way he found himself aching for her.

And then he could heal them both by being what she deserved right now, even though she'd probably convinced herself she deserved _this_: indifference from the man she'd quit on and the man she'd kept at a careful distance.

_You have to _stop_ this._

His feet quit beneath him and he let her hurry down the staircase while he leaned against the balustrade and watched her go. There was no happy ending to this; he had known that the second he'd realized she was pregnant. Even if he _could_ convince her to be stolen away for the afternoon, and even if it was as incredible as he knew it would be, there was a whole lifetime of her being married to another man, and her being pregnant or mother to a child that wasn't his, stretched out in front of him.

_Waiting was a mistake. _

And he was just going to have to learn to live with it.

* * *

Months passed, and he was learning.

It became easier as he threw himself at any woman who even so much as _breathed_ near him. He went with Oghren to visit Felsi and Delyn at their home in Denerim. While there, he toured the local taverns, his hands kept busy by the multitude of girls who fell hard for the Grey Warden bit.

He also got slapped more than a few times by the girls who were less impressed by some of his _other_ lines.

When he returned to the Vigil, Brand was even more scarce than she had been before he left. He saw her a few times a week, usually tucked in a secluded corner going over figures, writing letters, or rifling through boxes of junks. More often than not she was alone, and every day that passed found her looking more serene than he'd ever seen her.

He gave himself over to that peace, the need to have his body and mind always occupied lessening as time passed and he realized that things could be worse. At least he was still free, at least he had a commander who would fight for him. At least he could have his own room, and his own cat and come and go as he pleased.

Coming and going as he pleased was his favorite thing to do these days, even if it was limited to creeping down to the kitchen to steal some pie that he'd planned on enjoying in relative solitude in the empty dining room.

That Brand was there should not have surprised him. It _did_ almost dissuade him, but he realized that perhaps, with her inelegantly shoveling gruel into her mouth, this might be the perfect time to take a few tentative steps towards a more _neutral_ relationship.

So he tried. But then she went and _laughed_ and it was a sound he'd not heard for months _and why would he ever _not_ want that in his life?_ but he held onto himself as she settled into bemusement and then looked at him, eyes fastened on his, and said;

"I miss you, Anders."

It was simple and sincere and he had no idea if anyone had ever _missed_ him before. It broke his heart and quickened his pulse and he was simultaneously frustrated with her and guilty. Why did she have to go and get _pregnant_? What good could possibly come from _that_? Why did _he_ have to hide from her in order to deal with it? Why couldn't he just draw a mental line around her and learn to cope with the fact that she was off limits, even when she was sitting a few feet away from him, lips curved in the sweetest smile until her expression started to go a bit concerned the longer he didn't respond.

He pushed his plate away _she _did_ ask for some of my pie, right? _and stood to leave.

"Take the rest, I'm really too tired to eat."

And he ran, his mind caught on the hurt in her eyes as he turned away and his heart threw itself against his chest in a mad attempt to get his attention.

He made it to the safety of his room before he reacted to what he'd just done, running scared when he should have just _told_ her.

_Told her _what_, exactly? That you more than _miss_ her? That you want her? That you _love_ her?_

"_No_," he was talking to a cat and an empty room, but this needed to be said aloud because, otherwise, it wasn't _enough_. "I don't _love_ her. I..._no_."

Ser Pounce-a-lot was watching from where he'd jumped onto the bed.

"Mrawr."

"Shut up, you," Anders rubbed at his eyes, pressing hard against an encroaching headache. "You don't think I feel like a complete ass?"

"Mewf," the cat turned his back and collapsed into a ball, clearly displeased with his human but nowhere near as displeased as his human was with _himself_.

* * *

The rain had been falling for days.

Anders had been lurking quietly for the most part, keeping to his room or hiding in the library or solarium. He'd heard the Commander's orders, that every knight, healer and Grey Warden would be sent into the arling to help evacuate farm holds. He heard the orders and promptly _hid_. There was absolutely no way in the world that he was leaving her here with only Varel and a mid-wife. He'd had limited experience with childbirth, one blood-soaked night tagging along with his mother to deliver a neighbor woman's first, but he knew that having a healer on hand was _always_ a good idea in these situations.

He risked serious repercussions if anyone discovered he'd _willingly_ stayed behind, and the idea that he could be discharged from the Wardens turned his stomach_. That will never happen_. He found a quiet corner of the library and pretended to be napping. The library was not a place frequented by soldiers before a mission, so he could just say he hadn't _heard_ the orders.

Not that, in the end, anyone would even be _thinking_ about such things.

It was a cry that woke him, a scream that cut through the thick fog of oversleep. In the silence that followed, he was able to convince himself that the noise was just an extension of his dream, un unpleasant thing featuring darkspawn and pale hands that reached to him from impenetrable shadows.

He sat up slowly, and touched his forehead to relieve some of the pressure and clear things up a bit. His eyes remained gritty, and his tongue was coated in a film that tasted faintly of rank cheese, but otherwise he felt fine.

Fine until he heard another cry, _his_ name being called out by Varel.

Anders had never heard anyone sound so desperate, and he was tearing out of the library more quickly that he'd done anything his entire life, almost knocking the seneschal clear down the staircase when they collided at its landing.

"What's wrong?" He didn't need to ask, because Varel's tunic and hands were covered in blood and his face was distorted with panic, anguish and concern.

They descended to the ground floor together and Anders didn't stop running until he was at her side, his hands searching her stomach while his eyes avoided everything lower than that.

Whatever pain she was feeling was wrapped up tightly, even though she was unconscious. The baby, though, was _obviously_ not fine.

"He's suffocating," Anders swallowed hard and turned to Anatolia. "He's suffocating, but slowly. She needs to have him now or he'll die."

Before Anatolia could respond, he poured as much healing into Brand's stomach as he could. It would protect the baby and help her body cope with the blood loss so far. He then placed his hand against her chest, testing her heartbeat against his palm.

"She's nowhere close to ready, ser," Anatolia lifted Brand's shift and did something between her legs, her head shaking. "Nowhere close. We'll have to cut him out."

"We'll _what_?" Anders leaned protectively over his commander, the idea of cutting a baby out of its mother seeming like something that wasn't the _healthiest_ thing. "Won't that _kill_ her?"

Anatolia nodded, "I think she'd dead anyway...or close to it."

"No...no. She's not dead," Anders' stomach twisted and he pressed harder against her chest, her heartbeat steady beneath him as he offered another heal.

This brought her back, her hands finding the bottom of her gown as she pulled at it and arched her back.

_Brand_.

He tried to get her to hold still, but only the promise that he would save her son would placate her and the idea of killing _her_ was just too...he fell against her. How could she ask this of him? How could she expect _him_ to take her away forever when he'd not been able to cope with the idea of her just being on the other side of Ferelden? How would he live with himself?

But she was flesh and blood beneath him, her own person with her own heart and how could _she_ live with _herself_ if she chose to let her son die so that she might survive?

And she would _never_ be the same it that happened.

So he relented. He drank his lyrium and steeled his heart and prayed to the Maker that he could save them both, that Anatolia was able to make a clean incision and Brand was able to remain still and that the baby would come out whole and healthy because Anders could not bear to lose them both.

He could not bear to lose them both, and he only knew the one until Anatolia placed a bluish thing, slick and bloody and motionless in his hands and what was he supposed to _do_ with it?

"Breathe into its mouth and nose," she had unwound the cord from the babe's neck. "Breathe into it and _heal_."

So he did, remembering that he had seen his mother do the same that other night with another baby and it was the strangest feeling in the world when the thing in his hands cried at him and went from _thing_ to _Bryce_ with a waving of his feet and hands.

_Maker, look at those _hands_._

"He looks like a _genlock_."

And how Brand could be talking in her current state Anders did _not_ know.

Anatolia handed Bryce off to Varel so she and Anders could refocus on Brand and the gash in her stomach. Her son wailed in the background, as if he could sense that things weren't going so well and his mother was fading fast.

_No_. Anders drank more lyrium and pushed harder, even as the room tilted and spun around him. _No, I will _not_ let you die. Not like _this_, not before you know._

Her eyes rolled back and she was unconscious.

He continued to heal until Anatolia had dealt with everything that needed dealing with and the wound was stitched tight. Then he drank more lyrium and _kept_ healing until he felt nothing because he'd collapsed, too, and had to be carried to his own bed and, even then, he insisted on being on his side so that he could watch her sleep and breathe.

Disobeying orders, as it turned out, was the best decision he'd ever made.

* * *

"What was it like? The birth, I mean" they were alone in the infirmary, talking over the gap between their beds. Brand was on her side and facing him, Bryce swaddled and against her stomach.

She couldn't keep her hands off of him, her fingers always brushing at his hair, or running along his cheek, or pressing against his chin.

"It was disgusting, what I saw of it," Anders ducked his head. He'd tried very hard to not see anything, both out of respect and out of a desire to actually _enjoy_ sex the next time he had the opportunity for it. Still, there _had_ been fleeting glimpses and he _really_ didn't want to talk about those. "It was a bit like watching you loot."

"Loot?" She smiled and looked down at Bryce. "Pretty decent loot, if you ask me."

"I don't know...I was hoping for a new pair boots, to be honest," he sat up slowly. For the most part, he was fine. He was just having headaches that couldn't be handled through traditional means. "Have you seen his hands yet?"

Her eyes widened in excitement as she shook her head. It had been nearly a week and Anatolia had been handling the changes and his baths until Brand had gotten her strength back. Anders wanted to point out that a weak Brand was still twice as strong as Anatolia on a good day, but he decided against it. Brand needed the rest and would be up and at it with the slightest bit of encouragement.

He went over to her bed, taking a seat on the edge up by her headboard. They worked together to unbind Bryce just enough that Anders could work one arm out and Brand gasped she saw he son's spidery fingers wrapped around one of Anders'.

"Wow..._wow_," she slid her thumb against him so that Bryce's fingers spanned both of theirs. "Look at his tiny little nails. Maker, I didn't know they had _finger_nails!"

He laughed at the joy in her voice, allowing his free hand to lower so that it was grazing her temple, and he nudged back a lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes. Her head moved slightly, coming to rest against his knee and they remained that way, even after Bryce's arm had been recaptured and there was no reason for them to be together at all.

A few evening later, they were together again as he escorted her to her room, Bryce in one arm and his other hand holding her waist.

It was a brief moment, her thanks to him, but it came with a _kiss_. A stupidly chaste kiss, of course, that really shouldn't have meant anything considering their own proclivities to that end. But it was her _close_ to him and he sensed her hesitation as she pulled away and her eyes were liquid and saying things her mouth couldn't.

_I could fall in love with you if I don't love you already and I'm sorry that this is all you'll ever get from me._

And his silent response: _Yes_ and _Don't be sorry, there are worse things than not being with you... like losing you forever._

He left before their mouths could take over from their eyes and he made it almost halfway to his room before he fell against the wall, his head going back with a crack he hardly noticed as his eyes fell shut and he replayed the _stupidly chaste and perfect_ kiss ten times without breathing, the events of the past week culminating in this moment of confirmation.

Never had he felt so _relieved_ or so _helpless_.

* * *

After over a year of chaos, life at the Vigil settled into something approaching routine.

Anders spent most of his time teaching mages how to fight along the non-mage Wardens and knights. Once they learned the language, and where to stand and what spells were inadvisable to use near a comrade, he would then take them to the melee training and teach the swords how to fight alongside the _mages_.

He took satisfaction in watching the knights go from openly disdaining them to being incredibly impressed at how effective they could be in any role they needed to fill.

When he wasn't training, or studying, he was with Brand in her office, discussing training and recruitment or what Garavel had said that morning at breakfast and oh, they _hated_ that guy.

In her office, he'd be on the couch with Bryce climbing all over him, his ridiculously overlong fingers finding their way into Anders' hair, his earring, his mouth. She'd be at her desk, trying not to laugh as Anders wrangled her son with tickles, silly faces, and songs.

As Bryce grew older, his eyes settling to the same shade of green as his mother's and his face never looking any less like her own, he started talking with her casual cadence and hurtling around on unsteady feet, as fearless as she was.

He was bright and curious, incredibly observant and funny on purpose, which caught all of them by surprise. Despite the fact that he was raised by several hands, Fiona, Sigrun, Zevran and Nathaniel all cared for him in turn whenever Brand had obligations that took her away, Anders was his favorite.

The feeling was mutual.

"The younger apprentices in the tower were always so...ugh. _Kids_," Anders shuddered. Bryce was just over two and a half and repeating everything _anyone_ said.

"Ugh, _kids_," he shot a glance over at Brand. "Sit with me?"

She joined Anders on the couch, Bryce immediately crawling into her lap to begin a rambly and mostly nonsensical account of how Anders had said _Ugh, kids_ and then Brand had come and sat on the couch.

"Why do you think you're special, Bryce?" Brand pushed his hair back, her brow wrinkling in consternation over the _length_ of it. "Why do you think Anders likes you when he thinks other kids are _ugh_?"

"Knicker's weasels!" Bryce was absurdly proud of his non sequitur. Anders started to laugh, but Brand's hand went out and knocked him against the shoulder.

"Oh, and he hasn't picked up worse from Oghren?" Bryce was now wedged between them. "I don't see you hitting _him_."

"Don't act like you don't like it when I hit you," Brand's eyes were _bright_ and they'd been brighter recently, and she and Teagan were spending more time together. A few days later, Anders saw her do something she'd _never_ done before, at least not openly- she kissed Teagan on the cheek. It was a spontaneous and affectionate gesture and while she and Anders had settled into an honest friendship that meant he had to become comfortable with her and Teagan together, seeing her be like _that_ with _him_ was weird.

And it shook something loose in him.

It was four months later that he found himself sprawled on the floor of her office, Bryce and Ser Pounce-a-lot waging a small war for his attention, one tangled in his hair, the other gnawing contentedly on a feather pulled from his robes. Brand was watching, laughing and writing decrees, or letters, or dirty poems.

Then Teagan walked in, and Bryce toddled off to his father, his _father_ father, and not the man sprawled on the floor in mangled, drool-covered robes with a head of hair mussed by paws and spindly, sticky baby fingers. Brand also went to Teagan, chattering on about their upcoming visit to Redcliffe to visit his brother.

Lying there, Anders realized with terrible clarity that he had been _waiting_ for the past three years, give or take. Being her second, joining in the Garavel hate, rolling around on the floor with her son like a very handsome and overpowered nan. And he wasn't _celibate_ or anything, and nothing was _there_, really, but it was still embarrassing to be That Guy, and for what? The off chance that one night he might do something spectacular enough to warrant another sisterly peck on the cheek?

He left a few days later for a lecture at the Circle Tower. When he told Brand he wouldn't be coming back, he searched for a flicker of sorrow in her wide eyes and saw only careful distance.

"Have fun," she shifted a bit. "And be _safe_. And stay out of trouble, with that...mouth of yours. I won't be around to save your ass."

_You could be_, he shook his head. That wasn't fair, he supposed. He was the one that had been too late, and had waited when he shouldn't have waited and then let being comfortable in their friendship convince him that friendship was enough.

At the tower, the templars greeted him with barely repressed disdain, and he very much enjoyed breezing in, laying down some knowledge and preening a bit in front of a group of young mages, and then breezing out with a nod to First Enchanter Virginie on his way.

Lucille Amell stopped him before he left, pressing into his hand a packet of letters for her siblings in Gosport. Anders had spent some time at the Brother and Sisters Inn, engaging in the general merriment and flirting with Lucille's twin sister, Beatrice, but he'd no real plans to return there until he was asked to courier the documents.

"Why won't you let the Wardens recruit you?" Lucille had always been a bit odd, even before she'd spent time in the tower prison. Now she was downright _eccentric_, her fingers tapping against air and lips moving as she thought.

"I like it here, now," she smiled, pushing back her copper hair. "Virginie is nice and even the Knight-Commander has allowed some of the rules to be loosened. I think they're scared of another rebellion..."

"_I_ think you're giving them too much credit, Lu," he held up the letters. "But I'll take these with me, for the next time I head that way."

As is it turned out, he ended up heading that way within days, after he awoke in a random bed in a random tavern next to a random brunette with freckles on her back. Fumbling around his pack in attempt to find his water skin, his fingers brushed against a folded piece of vellum.

He pulled it out with a frustrated sigh. He knew exactly what it was- a short note to Brand explaining that Bryce's nameday gift, a wooden frog, was in a box in Anders' wardrobe.

And he'd meant to leave _this_ on her desk, so that she would be able to find the toy and take it with them to Redcliffe, where they'd be celebrating. Anders had been so excited to discover the frog, knowing that Bryce would probably go crazy when he discovered the mechanism that allowed it to _croak_.

Now, though, it was uncertain that he'd ever receive it. Anders had no idea how long Brand would wait for him to return, how long she'd leave his room vacant. If they _did_ move someone else in, would she sort through his abandoned belongings? Or would someone else find the box and discard the present?

He crumpled the note, letting it drop into his pack.

He'd missed the point _entirely_.

His rash decision to leave the Wardens was because he felt like a fool for waiting for Brand all those years while she was slowly learning how to be content with her own situation. But, until the moment he thought it, he'd not felt foolish. As a matter of fact, he'd been _happy_. He could come and go as he pleased from his home full of people who respected him. He had a purpose- helping other mages discover worth that had been taken from them by the Chantry, and he was helping them prove their worth to others.

He had Brand. He had her support, her friendship and her commitment to his freedom, which she seemed to cherish far more than her own.

Best of all, he had her smile and her laughter whenever he wanted it, and _double_ because he also had Bryce who was Brand in miniature and his feelings for her had spilled onto him and he didn't spend time with them because he wanted _more_, he spent time with them because he was _happy_ with what he had.

He fell out of the bed, pulled on his hastily discarded clothing, and left random brunette to wake up alone.

He took his horse and Ser Pounce-a-lot and headed back towards Amaranthine, via Gosport. There he'd deliver Lucille's letters and then return to the Vigil, hopefully before Brand had returned from Redcliffe. He'd let himself into her apartment and leave Bryce's gift on his bed for when he returned and, if anyone asked why he'd come back, he'd say that the Grey Wardens were his family.

Because they _were_.

But things were _never_ easy for him when he was on his own. He arrived at the Amell's inn only hours before word of Arl Teagan's death came through the door with one of Teyrn Fergus' couriers. Anders had been drinking with Coire, laughing over nonsense and then the sweet cider that Anders so enjoyed turned bitter on his tongue and...

"Is Brand all right?" Panic gripped him, cold and black. The courier nodded and explained what happened- bandits had attacked just outside of the village. Arl Teagan and their mabari were killed; the Arlessa had escaped with minor injuries. Their son was at Redcliffe Castle when it happened, safe with Arl Eamon.

With Brand and Bryce accounted for, Anders was able to fret over the other thing- how suspicious it was that he had left shortly before Teagan's death and how even more suspicious it would be if he returned _now_.

His heart racing, he booked a room that he never saw because pretty Beatrice invited him to stay the night with her and he did.

It was nice.

Nicer than it had been in years, to be honest. If he hadn't been so distracted, it probably would have been enough to keep him there. As it was, he stayed with her for two months and hoped that what he was doing wasn't cruel.

Fortunately, Beatrice was a smart girl. She had known where he was heading and she knew why he felt like he couldn't continue.

And then she pushed him out.

"Before _I_ get too attached and _you_ run out of rope," her eyes were sympathetic. "You will always want to be with them, Anders. The longer you wait, the worse it looks."

And waiting had gotten him into trouble before, so he went back to the Vigil. He went back to the Vigil and tried not to see how Nathaniel and Garavel looked at him, choosing instead to be embraced by Sigrun and affectionately scowled at by Fiona. Despite it being the worst idea ever, he went to Brand's apartment without stopping by his room first.

The door was unlocked and he found her in the sitting room, stretched out on the settee and staring into the fireplace. Her face was as blank as it had been the morning she'd told him she had quit being a wife. And, like that morning, when she saw him recognition flashed and he felt the momentary pull of desire before she could lock that part of herself back up.

"I was more concerned about Charon," she focused on the fire. "I _tried_ to love him, I _tried_ to make it happen and I thought it might. But in the end, I was more concerned about my damned mabari than I was about my _husband_."

Anders knew it wasn't _that_ simple as he left his pack in the hallway and pulled her up so that he could sit next to her on the couch. They remained in silence for several minutes, the warmth of the fire nothing compared to the warmth they were generating in the space between them.

Which they ignored. Of course.

"I've been waiting two months to say that," she turned so that her eyes could meet his. They were far from empty and shining with tears. "I found Bryce's frog. He's probably sleeping with it right now."

"So my room has been reassigned?" Anders felt odd talking about this _now_.

"What? No," she looked vaguely guilty. "Bryce was asking about you and I thought I might find something I could, you know, give him. Maybe smooth the transition a little. The frog was perfect."

"I know," he leaned his head forward. They were so close, and the room was so warm and she was looking at him and there was real longing there...and sadness."I'm sorry, Brand. I should have been here for you."

"You're here now," she touched the back of his hand, which was now on her stomach.

_That's not right._

He blinked and he wasn't sitting beside her but rather kneeling next to her where she was lying on her back on the sofa in the Castle Cousland library. He blinked a second time and saw again the way the skirt of her dress was pushed up around her waist, and there were damp spots on her bodice...

"Brand, what did they do to you?"

She was dead-eyed again, one hand under his, the other on top. Beneath them all was her scarf.

"They came here after the talk...," she wouldn't look at him. "They...I let them sex ambush me."

_Oh, Brand_. He tried to ignore the way it burned beneath his breast, the idea of _them_ with her. It had been one thing to think of her young and bright and seducing them at a garden party, and another thing for _anyone_ to be with her now. In _this_ state.

"They were beautiful, and it felt good," her hand tightened around the scarf and she closed her eyes. "I couldn't bring myself to go to you, because that would have _hurt_."

"Brand, you _have_ to come to me now. Come back and tell me what's wrong," his hand went to her face, pushing her hair away from her temple, both skin and hair damp with sweat. "I can't help you until I _know_."

"I didn't want to hurt you, not like that," her breath caught. "So this happened instead. I thought if you saw us, it would at least be a good story, rather than just being..._sad_."

He could tell by looking at her, by the way she was yearning towards him and the way she was still wearing everything she _should_ be wearing that the Hopewells hadn't been with her for very long.

"Did you ask them to leave?"

"They found my scarf," it didn't match her dress, so she'd worn it beneath, around her waist. He'd secured it there himself while they were getting dressed for dinner. "I don't remember if I asked or if they knew. It doesn't matter, Anders. I let them...when I _should _have been talking to you."

She made the admission in the same detached voice she'd been using since he'd found her, and it was so far removed from whatever had happened between her and Fergus, and her and the Hopewells, and she would rather do it like _this_ than tell him the truth.

"I know what you're doing, Brand," he closed his eyes for a few seconds and thought of all the times before that he'd been too late, or he'd waited too long, or he'd remained quiet when he should have _said_ something. He felt like this entire week had been spent trying to get through to her, to let her know that she didn't have to _do_ this anymore. "You don't have to be alone, _ever_. Even if I'm at the Vigil, and you're in Redcliffe, write to me or shout at a portrait of me. Put it all in a journal to give me when I visit, or you visit, or we meet halfway in some inn that will charge extra for all the _complaints_ they receive about us. Just..._give it to me_. I can't watch you poison yourself, I can't let you do to me what you did to Alistair. I _won't_. I won't let you hurt _either_ of us like that, because you think you have to do it all alone. Because you _don't_."

She was crying now, her chest hitching as she tried to catch her breath and he could actually feel it now, her anguish rushing over him and _Maker, no wonder she's drunk. _

"_Why?_"

It came out, barely above a whisper.

"I don't know," he laughed, although his own eyes were stinging with tears. "I don't know why I put up with you, or why I waited all these years for you or why I would do it again. I'm a little confused why I'm even here right now when I could probably be with the _Hopewells_. Their standards seem to be pretty low this evening."

Her hand found his cheek and she tried to smile at him, but failed.

"Bryce will stay at the Vigil, as a squire," and this was the real reason for the pain, this was _truly_ what she'd been trying to avoid. "He'll be safe, and free, and happy and...so far away from me."

Anders could feel her fingers trembling against his jaw and he caught her hand and kissed it, trying to think of something reassuring to say.

"I promise I'll teach him to write so you can get the full Bryce effect as soon as you can, and we will write you every day if you want," her fingers were now on his neck and pulling him closer. "We'll visit as often as we can and I'll fret over his hair. And he will never _not_ know that you're thinking about him all the time because I will _never_ stop telling him how much you love him and how much you miss him."

"Can you tell yourself that, too?" They were so close, and the room was so warm and she was looking at him and there was real longing there..."Or should I train Bryce? Would that be weird?"

"You could say it _now_," his lips found hers before she could say _anything_. "Or you could _show_ me and save the _saying_ for when we're not alone, or for letters."

She looked him in the eye, hers still bright with tears.

"I don't know how much this means to you, but no place will feel like home without you," she tried another smile, successfully this time. "I've been waiting for years to say that...or some version of it. I was hoping for something more positive, but it seems like we're going to have to grab what we can and make the most of it."

___Making the most of it_ would definitely work for him_, _especially when it came to _her__. _Besides, he'd waited far too long to allow any more of these moments to pass him by._  
_


	39. Cold

**Note from Surely: **For those of you interested, I wrote another Undertow one-shot, entitled _The Frog_, that can be found on my stories page. It's about Bryce, Brand and Anders and takes place a month-ish before the first chapter.

Also, this chapter is a solid M for smut, language and violence.

**

* * *

**

"Your fingers are _cold_," Brand pushed sleepily at Anders' hand as it moved up her side, an ineffectual gesture that did nothing to dissuade its progress.

"That's the _idea_, darling," he began tracing a circle on her breast, each pass drawing him closer to her nipple and, by the time he made it with a cheeky little tweak, she had more than gotten the _idea_. "It's only because I'm a _gentleman_ than I started here and _not_ there."

_There_ was next as he drew his tongue over her breasts with delicious precision while his fingers moved to stroke up the inside of her thigh, leaving her skin shivery taut before he slid them into her, eliciting a cry that was a _little_ shock but mostly pleasure.

"_Oh_," words were hard to come by when nearly all of her focus was on his _tongue_ and _hand_ and that was even before his thumb put itself to work just above where his fingers were drawing back and forth and pushing up more forcefully with every pass. "Oh, _Maker_. This is _way_ better than waking up with a hangover."

"Of course it is," he raised his head and offered the sort of smirk that would have melted her even if he _wasn't_ doing unspeakably amazing things to her at the same time. "So tell me how _this_ feels..."

His free hand, cradling her cheek, grew hazy as magic began to flow, vibrant and warm, from his palm, through her temple and down her chest while his other hand echoed this, only he was still teasing her and at just the perfect spots inside and outside. Her back arching pulled her hips off the bed as everything between his fingers and within a foot wide radius began to thrum with pleasure, light pushing behind her eyes as even the air against her skin felt erotic in its way.

And then he was wiggling down her legs so his tongue could take over for his thumb and he lapped at her with such indolence, and she was so sensitive, that she swore she could feel the most minute shifts in his tongue as it drew over her, each pass causing her to sink further into the bed even as she tightened around his indefatigable fingers. At a junction of loose limbed ecstasy and drum tight anticipation, her head pushed back into the pillow and she began to move against him and _how does it get better every time we do this?_

As if he could read her mind and wanted make a case for _even better_, Anders raised his mouth and began to plant kisses from Bryce's scar up her stomach, between her breasts and along her neck until his mouth found her own and that was the _best_ as she suddenly wanted something _sweet_ and not just something that felt so good she thought her skin might catch on fire.

"Don't go, Anders. Stay up here," he'd been pulling back to return below, but seemed more than slightly pleased by her request as he settled over her for a lingering kiss, a deep embrace that spoke of yearning on his part and penitence on her own.

She could not believe how close she had come to completely betraying him in the night. And, even though she knew him so well, she could not believe how much of himself he'd given her in order to help mend her shattered heart.

"Did I ever tell you why I decided to take you to Amaranthine instead of Nate?" She asked this as Anders nudged at the spot just behind her ear; the feel of his breath against her neck, the sound of it in her ear, was _perfect_.

"I assume it has something to do with how much you like me," he reared back and his eyes met her own. "It's been going around that you do, you know."

"I _do_ know," she maneuvered her hand down between their stomachs and found him hard and pressed against her hip. Eyes gleaming, she began to stroke slowly while she spoke, enjoying the pleased noises that purred in his throat. "After I told Varel that Nate would be coming with me, I walked by the dining room and you were in there with _Penelope_ and _ugh_. I don't even think I considered being jealous, I just turned around, marched right back to Varel, and told him that a healer made more sense than an another assassin."

"Did you get a Varel sigh?" Anders pulled himself away, but began sliding back and forth in anticipation.

Brand shook her head, her hands finding themselves at his waist and it was suddenly difficult to remember more than the muted desire she'd felt for him then, and for _months_ before anything had actually happened. She'd buried it so well and so long that it was impossible to name then, although she could see it there in retrospect.

"Why did you kiss me? After so long, what finally pushed you over the edge?"

"I was having fun that night," he stopped. "And we were alone. Well, practically. And I was so close and I realized that if I didn't do something soon, someone else might and I just _wanted_ you and if I didn't let something out I knew I would _explode_ before long."

"Were you worried that I might...not be receptive?" She shifted, her legs positioning themselves outside of his.

"No, I knew exactly _how_ you would respond," his hand found her hip and he urged her up so he could enter her, almost contemplatively. "I was just afraid that you would go all _Brand_ on me and refuse to be happy."

He had a point; she'd taken some convincing. Now, however, she longed to lose herself in _this_ happiness- him inside her, his hands _on_ her and his mouth only inches from her own.

"You're thinking about being happy, aren't you?" He laughed when she nodded. "Well stop _thinking_ about it and just _be_ it!"

He kissed her again, his tongue pressing hard against hers as he pushed his hips forward and his mouth absorbed her cry of pleasure because it felt _incredible_ as he established a steady but unhurried rhythm, something happening even beyond the usual thrill of being consumed by him.

_I love that it's now a _usual_ thrill._

But she took his advice and stopped _thinking_ and only heard his breathing as it was punctuated by moans and her name, whispered syllables of _Brandelyn_ made provocative because _Brandelyn_ was novel when it came from _him_.

Then she gave herself over to how it _felt_, his skin slick against her own, his hands grabbing at her breasts, or her hips, or her backside when she'd pop up off the bed in response to a deliberate little shock. Then there was the quickening of things below as she tried to catch and keep him again and again and _that_ was being augmented by a sensation that ran up her thighs to _flow_ deep inside of her and tingle along every nerve as it built into something explosive.

"Are you ready?" He was obviously near his edge but she hesitated for a few beats as he thrust against her.

She nodded and he pulled away, moving down her stomach, his cheek sliding against her so she could feel the rasp of his scruff across her skin and then he was plying at her with his tongue, pushing it _into_ her and it was so suddenly different, intimate and _soft _but deliberate and _hot_...

"Fuck _me_, Anders," her fingers twisted so hard in his hair as she reached her threshold that she was afraid it might _hurt_ him. Instead, he urged her onto her hands and knees, his fingers digging into her hips as she settled and then he was back inside her, this time moving _fast_ along the very spot he'd just attended with his tongue.

She found herself pushing back, lowering her shoulders for a better angle and he let out a moan that made her toes curl, a feral sound that was accompanied by his fingers warming and everything between _him_ and his hands drawing tight in heartbeats only to come undone seconds before _he _did and she'd never heard him cry out so loudly nor heard herself respond like _this_ to _anyone_.

For a few moments, he continued to rock against her, the sensation soothing as they relaxed- she lowering her hips and him settling on top of her, his mouth burning against her back. She wrapped her arms around her pillow, holding onto it like _it_ was actually _this moment_ and she didn't want it to get away.

_You could have been enjoying these moments for years._

It wasn't the first time she'd thought something like this, but it _was_ the first time guilt didn't pull at her immediately after. It neither bad nor good. It was just _true_.

But it would benefit her not at all to think about that _now_.

Instead, she thought about how his chest felt pressed against her back, and how she knew he was smiling into her hair as he nuzzled up her neck because it was _Anders_ and he just _would_ be.

"I know this is the probably going to sound utterly insane, but I...I still want to marry you," she held her breath as this stopped him. "Or maybe I just want to say it- that I can't imagine being with anyone else like this, even if _we_ can't be together like this. And yes, _insane_, and probably a bit unbelievable after last night, but I want you to know how I've felt. How I feel. How I'll _always_ feel."

"If you're willing to piss off the Landsmeet _and_ the Chantry, you know _I'm_ game," he kissed her neck. "But it's not necessary, Brand. I do know how you feel, I wouldn't be here if I didn't. But it might put you at risk. I'd rather know you were _safe _than avowed to me and, besides, being married might limit our _role playing _options."

He accented this with a teasing squeeze of her backside.

"So I should go ahead and have Wade make me a set of templar plate?"

"Mmmm, _that_ has potential. I'd love to see your interpretation of a smite. Although it might make future encounters with templars..._confusing_."

"At least we both know you have no problems casting whilst aroused. As a matter of fact, I think _arousal_ makes you a better at it."

Anders chuckled, his arms tightening around her.

"If that were the case, I should have been able to defeat the Mother with a single _fireball_."

This made them both dissolve into laughter as he moved off her so they were facing one another, his fingers brushing against her forehead and suddenly _Bryce_ flashed in front of her, her stomach twisting in cold panic that was completely at odds with how this moment _should_ be going.

She was up, mindlessly flailing for the edges of the bed and only Anders intercepting her at the door kept her from running outside while still naked, disheveled, and obviously recently arrived.

"Brand, what's wrong?" His eyes were dark with worry as he was held her face between his hands, his thumbs pressed against her cheeks. "What's happened?'

"I don't know. _Bryce_," she pulled away and found her pack at the foot of the bed. "I saw him and felt...Anders, something's _wrong_. I know it."

He must have believed her as he followed her lead, gathering his clothes from the previous evening and getting dressed beside her, the pair of them moving with lightning speed.

Brand pulled on her boots, tucking daggers into them as she _thought_.

Fergus had talked her through the security measures before dinner. There _had _been infiltrators here, but Zevran had identified them and they'd been immediately removed. No one besides Fergus, Melisande, Brand and her Wardens would be allowed in or out of the keep and guards were positioned at every door and point of entry in the castle.

_You're safe here, Brand. I am well aware that my own family is at risk and you know that I would do _anything_ to protect them... and that extends to you and Bryce as well._

Remembering this did _nothing_ to dissuade the panic as she imagined Bryce again in Oren's place, resting peacefully in a blackening pool of blood, and had to choke back a cry of physical pain. Not letting it out did nothing to relieve the ache of worry, but she was able to focus on getting into her armor without Anders worrying over her.

"Do you think he's been hurt?" His voice, _the question_, broke the silence like a windowpane. As hard as it seemed to be for him to say, it was even harder for her to hear.

"I don't know...maybe there's still someone on the staff that Zevran didn't know," she sheathed her swords at her hips, realizing how crazed she was going to look storming out of her bedroom armed and armored, her lips and cheeks probably still bright from what she'd been doing not five minutes before. "Fergus has guards posted all over the keep, so...they should have seen _something_."

"Are you ready?"

It was the second time he'd asked that morning, and the context was so _alarmingly_ different. Life was whiplash now, constantly shifting around her from amazing to horrible and she didn't know if it would ever be under control again. Or if she'd be sane enough to _realize_ it was under control.

They fell out the door and were immediately greeted by Fergus and Fiona.

"Brand! Good morning," Fergus' eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep and glittering with concern as he regarded her. "I didn't realize you would be leaving so soon."

She shook her head, dismissing the implied _and you'd better not be leaving while you're mad at me_.

"Where's Bryce?" She looked towards the nursery, which had been Fergus' quarters _before_. He allowed these rooms to be used because, by the time he'd returned to Highever, the bodies had been removed and the stone scrubbed mostly clean. Because of this, he didn't share her aversion to certain places. The nursery, the last place she'd stood with her entire family and the place where seeing her nephew and sister-in-law slain had driven home how completely apart her life was coming, did not exist beyond its door. As far as _she _was concerned.

"Bryce?" Fergus blinked and Brand, irrationally angered by this, wanted to snap at him. _You know, _Bryce_? My _son_? Named after our father who died here and I don't know if I could live if I lost my Bryce ever, but especially not _here_._

Anders caught her before she could fall over, a discreet amount of magic helping relieve the pressure in her chest and skull.

"Willow took the children to the dining hall for breakfast about an hour ago," her brother frowned. "The castle is secure, Brand...why? What's wrong?"

"I don't know," and if she said that or thought that one more time she might ask Anders to walking bomb her because she was _sick_ of not knowing. "I just felt something- panic and Bryce's face and...I'm going to go look for them."

She was off before Fergus could respond, moving swiftly from the family and guest quarters to the main keep. Her entire body was humming with _expectation_. _Expectation_ of an ambush, of shadow figures flinging themselves at her here, _expectations_ of Bryce's voice crying or laughing or _anything_.

_I just want to hear his voice echoing off these walls. Because at least I'll know he's not..._

"Brand?"

She'd stopped to listen, hearing nothing but distant fighting, and the low roar of fire and the cries _not_ of her son, who didn't yet exist, but of everyone she'd known _before_ him.

_You have got to get a grip, Brand. Now is _not_ the time to lose your mind._

She took a deep breath and forced herself to look at the facts: It was early morning here, overcast but morning. She'd not just been with Dairren, but with _Anders_ and he was still beside her, when before it had been her mother.

_Just the fear is the same. And the destination of _Bryce_. _

Steeling herself, she continued down the ramp, turning sharply to her left to find herself confronting two guards who were lounging against the walls adjacent to the dining hall door.

"My lady!" They snapped to attention when they saw her, exchanging uneasy glances over the fact that they'd been caught shirking on duty. "Fancy a spot to eat, Commander?"

"No," Brand blinked hard, her mind clicking back again to an afternoon and guards playing cards in the treasury and then, later that night, _dead_. "No. Are Willow and the children still eating?"

"Uh," the guards looked at each other again. "No, Commander. Teyrna Melisande came by with her maid, uh, _Brenna_, to get the children about forty minutes ago. Said she needed to visit some folk in town who wanted to see Lady Norah."

"_What_?" Brand could not keep the incredulity from her voice and, from the way the armed men visibly shrank away, her face must have registered something more than _that_. "She took my _son_ with her?"

Anders shifted next to her, as uncomfortable with this news as she was. Despite the fact that he wore no robes and carried no staff, the guards quailed further at his subtle movement. Brand briefly considered ordering him to mind blast them or _something_ for being so useless.

"Fuck," Brand spun on her heel, hurrying towards the front gates. "How could she be so...presumptuous?"

"Pre_sump_tuous?" Anders kept pace beside her. "Don't you mean insanely _stupid_? Has Fergus not told her _anything_ about what's going on?"

Jaw tightening, Brand shook her head. Her mother, once a battlemaiden in her own right, had been happy to let her father handle these sorts of matters. While he may have spoken to her of them in vague terms, he'd usually omitted troubling details as his way of protecting her from the more unpleasant aspects of his position.

_"There's no need to burden your mother with talk of these things, Pup,"_ she could still see him leaning against the library fireplace. _That _conversation had been about the news of darkspawn attacks filtering from the south, from Lothering and beyond. King Cailan had yet to call for Highever's men, but Teyrn Bryce knew that day would soon arrive_."She'll deal with whatever happens when it happens. Otherwise she'd be walking around fretting about _everything_ all the time."_

Fergus had treated Oriana much the same. It was his way to express himself in jovialities and downplay _danger_ as if _danger_ was something that would respond to his charm the way everyone else did. Going on about serious things did not fit with how he wanted his spouse to see him. Melisande, being as she was but a shadow of Oriana, probably received less of everything from her husband. Brand thought it entirely possible that she may not even know about Eamon's death.

"Probably not, but it doesn't change the fact that..." _Maker, what was she _thinking_? _

They arrived at the gate before Brand could complete her statement. The guards there were far more alert and a number of them wore matching expressions of concern.

"This is _reassuring_," Anders kept close to her elbow.

"Commander!" Brand recognized Ser Taylor, a young knight from Highever who had sworn himself to the Couslands after his mother and sister, both maids in the castle, had been captured and used by Howe's men for _entertainment_. "Commander, I'm glad you're here."

"What's going on, Ser Taylor? I assume this has something to do with Melisande?" Brand had no idea how she was able to sound so calm when she was starting to go mindless with fear. "Did she pass through already?"

"Yes, yes. She...about thirty minutes ago. Her, Brenna, and the children. I told her that she shouldn't travel without a guard, but she insisted that it wasn't necessary, that she'd be fine on her own. But...she _never_ goes out on her own," she could see in his eyes that Melisande's order was eating at him; he couldn't defy the teyrna without putting his job in jeopardy.

"Has anyone told _Fergus_? Shouldn't he know his pregnant wife is traipsing around with two children, a maid, and nobody to protect her?" Anders moved forward slightly, but Taylor didn't so much as flinch.

"I thought to, Ser Mage, but.." his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. He was telling them things they should not know. "The teyrn and teyrna have been arguing recently, because Fergus has the castle under such tight security. The pregnancy has made her restless, but he doesn't want her out and about. So this is an act of defiance...and she told us to not tell."

"Ser Taylor, what are you whispering about?" Fergus came from nowhere and he did _not_ sound pleased.

Taylor recoiled at _that_, but Brand wheeled around to confront Fergus on the knight's behalf. _She_ wasn't beholden to the teyrna and knew no boundaries when it came to her brother.

"Your wife has taken our children down to Highever with just her maid as accompaniment," Brand did not bother to disguise the _and I might very well _throttle_ her when I see her next _in her voice."And, apparently, ordered your men to not tell you."

Eyes narrowing, Fergus drew himself to his full height. Brand half-expected a bellow, but he merely offered a curt nod.

"Let's go find them."

They pushed through the gates, walking in step through the outer bailey as if they were marching to war, despite the fact that Fergus wasn't even armed. Brand had never fought alongside her brother in battle. They'd stood together in matters of the Landsmeet, though, Anora calling them the Twin Terror when they both dug into an argument and dominated the banns.

"There should be a law against us, together," Brand stared grimly ahead as they paused at the stables so Anders could grab his staff, which had been left in the coach.

Fergus let out a snort, "Melisande didn't understand what Anora meant when she said that. I think she's about to find out."

They were met on the road by two more guards who fell in behind the Cousland siblings, Anders, and the six or so guards who'd accompanied them out of the keep.

"So, _Commander_...," Anders' voice was low and Brand tilted her head slightly to better hear him. "We're assuming this is a domestic dispute and not a matter of greater urgency?"

She moved closer to him, "Fergus is _angry_ but not _worried_, so..."

"Melisande!" Fergus shouted this and Brand registered him sprinting past in her peripheral vision before she actually saw his wife coming at them from around a bend in the road, Norah clinging to her skirt and Bryce nowhere to be seen.

Anders grabbed Brand's arm in something like a death grip and pulled her forward. It was all that could get her going, her heart having stopped in her chest as everything inside turned to ice.

"Melisande! What happened to you?" Fergus' frustration had dissipated at the sight of his wife's flagging posture and dirt smeared skirt. Before he could reach her, Norah flung herself at his legs, tears streaking her pale face.

"Why not Bryce, Papa?" Fergus caught the toddler in his arms, cradling her against his chest as he turned to stare at Brand, his eyes black with confusion.

"Where is he, Melisande?" Brand's voice came out at a bark. She was unmoved by the tears that clung at the corner of her sister-in-law's eyes, her heart gone in the absence of her son. "You let them _take_ him, didn't you?"

For a split second, Brand saw naked hatred in the other woman's eyes before everything was masked by a second round of tears that spilled dramatically over her cheeks.

"They would have _killed_ Norah...Brenna threatened her if I didn't escort them out of the castle and they made me leave _him_. It was the only way to save her," she grabbed Fergus' arm, putting him between herself and Brand. "I had to keep my little girl safe!"

_What about my little _boy_?_ Brand fought to keep her hands off her swords, to keep from screaming, to keep from ripping a hole in the world to match the hole that was tearing inside of _her._

"Where...where did they find you?" Anders had taken over, his voice edged in panic. "How many of them and where were they heading?"

"There were four or five of them, about a quarter mile away from the city wall, but west, in a clearing just inside the woods. I don't know where they were going," Melisande sounded as if she resented having to remember this. "Besides Brenna, the only one of them I recognized was your bastard."

Brand was beginning to run before the last part registered and, _when _it registered, her limbs turned to lead and she felt simultaneously relieved and _terrified_.

_Please be a good thing, please be a good thing. _

"What did you say?" There was no world anymore, just her and Melisande and the absence of Bryce and the possible implication of what had just been _said_.

"Your bastard was there," Melisande moved a few inches away from Fergus. "Alistair, I think his name was?"

"Did he go with Bryce?" That would be better than Bryce being alone with them. _Anything_ would be better than Bryce being alone with them. "Did he turn himself over?"

_Please be a good thing, please be a good thing. _

"Turn himself over? He was in _charge_. He asked for Bryce by name and Bryce _went_ to him, even though he had his sword drawn."

_No._

_Bryce doesn't understand what really happened, but _he _thinks Alistair is his _friend_._

As if her life depended on it _because it did_ Brand began to _run_, Anders following and casting a haste spell on both of them and she knew that he was already trying to sense Bryce in the woods around them as she led them straight to the clearing where her son had been taken.

Not _taken_, but lured and given away.

It was probably close to three-quarters of a mile to the clearing and Brand was fast even without Anders help, but she needed to keep him close.

"We'll be ambushed," she ducked beneath a series of low branches and very nearly tripped on an errant root. "My guess is just before we reach the clearing."

"How long will it take for Fergus and his men to get down the road?"

"Depending on how many of _them_ there are...," she leapt over a fallen tree, and then slowed as Anders had to run around it. "We'll either be done or dead before we get help."

They went the rest of the way in silence, although the sound of them crashing through the forest could probably be heard for miles. Stealth was not so much their strength, nor were either of them in a mind to waste time.

It was Anders who saw them first, _sensed them first_. His hand caught Brand's elbow and he pulled her behind a large tree, the stopping throwing into relief how very sore she already was. _Adrenaline _would have to get her through this.

"They have a mage...possibly a blood mage," his mouth was close to her ear. "There are wards nearby."

Brand nodded and allowed him to move away to investigate. She drew a deep breath. One mage should not be too much of a problem, Anders could disable one on his own. More than that, though...Brand closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift a bit, a once familiar sensation flooding her limbs as the veil around her grew weak and she was then aware of another presence, a whispered greeting within her as _he_ settled in.

_I know those which you fight, Commander_...it was like a thought and a memory and a bug in her ear. _They seek power through unjust means, through fear and manipulation and murder. _

She nodded, which was incredibly unnecessary as he'd be able to hear what she was thinking as clearly as she could. The last time she'd summoned him was the night Teagan had been killed, and she'd forgotten him there in her head until after she'd discovered her dead husband and he'd departed with a murmured _I'm so sorry_.

"I've neutralized the traps..."

Anders' voice caught her by surprise and she realized that her body and mind were reacting to his presence automatically, a surge of adoration followed by a flare of desire and she felt Justice respond, surprise echoing in their shared consciousness:

_You _love_ him._

She did not nod this time, but allowed her mind to flip though still images of _those_ she loved, Bryce _and_ Anders, as she drew her swords and moved towards the clearing.

It began with a spell, a force catching Brand by surprise as it pushed the air around her _in_ and had Anders not warned her of the mage, she would have certainly been incapacitated at the outset. Instead, she was able to push it off and the caster had given away his position to Anders, whose finger tips were already glowing blue before he flung his arms out, emitting a wave of mana that passed harmlessly through Brand but dropped the other mage instantaneously, his own source of power turned against him.

It was a high cost spell, and risky for Anders to have done so soon. With only the two of them against an unknown number of enemies, this fight could be a long one and his mana would need to be rationed.

"Stay back, Anders. I'm running in...just support me until I give you the signal."

Anders nodded and pressed against a tree where he had an unobstructed sightline into the clearing.

"I can see four of them at the perimeter," his eyes darted around quickly. "And there's probably at least two more beyond here."

_Six I can handle, if I can keep my head._

_You could give me orders to that end, Commander. If your head is lost, I can replace it. _

Doing as promised, Brand stormed into the clearing, her chin down and her eyes ablaze. In each hand she bore a sword, identical blades crafted by Wade into what could possibly be the most deadly weapons in all of Thedas. In addition to their enchantments, they were now crackling with magicked flames as she latched onto her first target, a small archer to the northwest.

_Bowmen_ were second to mages when it came to threat, and this one seemed to not know what to do with the flaming death that was hurtling directly towards him. He attempted to get a shot off but quailed when her face twisted into something exquisitely brutal that was fed by a surge of blind rage as she permitted herself a thought of _Bryce_ in _danger_. She saw the arrow fumble before it could be nocked and, by the time he'd readied it again, she was on him.

With the full force of bloodlust behind it, her first blow was a fatal one that penetrated armor and flesh to skewer the unfortunate assassin. Momentum put her face close to his, so close that she could see the texture of his grey elven eyes and feel his final exhalation against her throat as she drew his escaping lifeforce in like it was just another breath.

She hated doing this to _people_, but it strengthened her and she _needed_ the strength. Her arm was already protesting and she could feel the toll of the relative inactivity of the past week in her burning thighs.

The next target came to her; Brand heard the gasp of readiness and she swung around, her swords flying parallel to the ground as she dipped low to dodge the attack and slice the assassin across the thighs in a spot left uncovered by greaves or tassets, where woolen hose offered no resistance.

She did not wait for her attacker to die, fallen as he already was and clutching at his gashed and useless legs. Instead, she began fending off two men flanking her, one of them shoving against her with a wooden shield equipped with a steel spike that drove into her side, just below her ribcage.

_That is a grievous injury, Commander. You should summon the mage._

Brand was holding onto her pain, an automatic response, and she knew that Anders would not be able to clearly see what was happening from his position.

_Not yet. He only has his magic to defend himself._

A second blow landed, this time a sword catching her left forearm as she tried to block.

_Only?_

The last strike made it to bone. She had to give in, throwing her head back and letting loose a scream that came from a dark place within her and tore at her throat. It also served to stun her opponents, both of them reeling back so that they were vulnerable to the sweep of her swords, higher than normal as her back compensated for her now doubly injured arm.

Her right sword landed against the assassin's bared jaw, tearing cleanly across and she tried _not _to see too much in the split second before blood began to overwhelm yellow teeth and the white of exposed bone and flesh.

She did not have time to brace herself before the man to her left, sensing weakness, recovered and lunged at her again. She _was _able to dodge away, the tip of his sword catching harmlessly at her breastplate instead of the edge sinking into her side.

While he repositioned himself for another strike, Brand leapt clear of what she knew would be coming- a steady blast of frigid air that rooted her opponent in mid attack.

"There's only one more that I can see," Anders threw his arms out and she felt healing flow between them, her arm immediately feeling more capable so she could dispense of their frozen enemy with a quick riposte that shattered him into a macabre heap of assassin at her feet.

There were actually _two_. Brand's shoulders jerk back involuntarily and her head felt as if an ogre had grabbed it between its hands and started squeeze.

_It is a powerful mage._ Justice sounded apologetic and she could feel her limbs tingling warmly as he gave himself a stronger presence within her, lessening the damage done by the crush of psychic energy that could be both debilitating _and _deadly. Because of _his _efforts, she was able to harmlessly absorb the bolts of lightning being hurled at her. Anders, having just dispatched the opponent he thought would be their last, was _also_ caught.

_No_.

His limbs flailed out, everything horrifically illuminated by the seemingly unending cracks of electricity, and he collapsed at the exact moment she was able to relax back into usefulness, her _violent_ attention now on a sparking but black clad figure about fifteen feet beyond the clearing.

_This could be an attempt to draw you into a second ambush, Commander._

Brand thought of Anders, not as he lay injured behind her but as he'd been that morning- holding her and laughing in the afterglow of something very close to perfect.

Justice offered no further advice and she took whatever fight would happen next _away from Anders_, fury warming her blood.

The mage was an elf, a Dalish from the markings on her cheeks and nose. Brand knew the Dalish had access to ancient magics, and had seen Velanna do horrible things with the forest at her beck and call, summoning trees to fight at her side and calling wolves to attack from the shadows.

This particular Dalish, though, was doing all her own work- her fingers obscured in a brown fog as she began to cast something Brand could only assume would _not_ be entirely pleasant. Something to drain her life, or weaken her.

For a moment, she felt a tiny surge of concern. Anders was injured, and she was up against a mage. _A powerful mage, _Justice reminded her. Who knew when Fergus' men would find them, and every second they weren't going after Bryce was a second that he was getting further away.

_Bryce_.

Justice expanded in her then, she could see her own skin begin to glow as he became dominant and, even if the spell could hit her as she hurtled forward with unnatural speed, _he_ would absorb it and be sent back to the Fade, leaving her unharmed to deliver an unchallenged blow against the diminutive mage.

But she _was_ moving too fast, and screaming again, and not even the mage's last ditch attempt to freeze Brand in place could stop her before blades were driven hilt deep and side by side through the mage's abdomen.

This one was _close_, closer than the first she'd killed, but Brand did not linger or absorb her energy. Instead, she lifted the hilts of her swords so that the elf slid lifelessly away from her, Brand not waiting to see her hit the ground before she ran back to where Anders was sitting in the clearing, holding his head and trying to heal himself with what energy he had left.

She fell to her knees in front of him and she could see that he was shaken, his _skin _still twitching as she caught one of his hands in hers.

"All you all right?" That was _his _question to ask and he smirked to hear it coming from her.

"I'll be fine...I just don't get hit that often. It's more mental than physical, I think," he let her help him to his feet."Your fingers are cold."

And she thought again of that morning, less than an hour ago when she was waking up to something _good..._

_I think I will leave you at that, rather than...I wish you nothing but luck in all these endeavors, Commander. _

Brand's limbs became heavy as Justice withdrew, her mind seeming like a suddenly lonely place in the absence of her ethereal companion. Fortunately, she didn't have time to dwell on it.

"Bryce is nearby," Anders eyes went almost black with anger. Moving with an unusual amount of ferocity he rescued his staff from the ground and began striding purposefully to the west.

"Can you sense him?" Her heart began to pound, _hope_ rather than anger or fear the driving force. "If you can sense him then he's _alive_."

Anders nodded, relief flickering across his features for a moment when he stopped to look back to her. Relief was short-lived, though, as he cringed at something she could neither see or feel.

"He's being restrained," his voice was sad, unsteady. He began stalking forward again, changing direction slightly.

"You mean tied up?" She tried to rush past him, unable to _not_ hurry to her son, but his hand grabbed her elbow and she was forced to stop.

"No, _magically _restrained. He's being held by a _templar_, Brand," Anders looked as if he might cry, and Brand could feel herself growing numb. "Melisande must have been telling the truth...Alistair has Bryce."


	40. Now

It was Brand's cry that did it, Bryce concerned but not afraid until they heard it echoing off the trees around them. Then his green eyes flashed with recognition and not fear, the way Brenna and the two men who traveled with them went a bit pale despite their own strength.

Actually, Brenna might be useless outside of being able to show a dagger. The men, though...one was Zevran times one hundred, like the edge of an Antivan blade flashing in the sunlight. And, like some flashes, one of those things you saw too late and could never catch. Then there was the mage, Tale, an innocuous enough looking young man in plain brown robes. He reminded Alistair of Gob, right down to the way he smiled after every cruel thing he said, confident you'd not remember it the next time he spoke.

Alistair was crouched next to where Bryce stood with his hand securely around Ser Pounce-a-lot's tail, watching the child while being careful to keep his expression impassive.

"That's Brand," Bryce whispered this, the corner of his mouth pulling thoughtfully. Pounce's ears went back and he pressed against the boy's legs.

"I know, Bryce," Alistair didn't blink. They weren't close enough to hear everything, but Alistair knew Brand well-enough to guess the six or so men waiting to ambush would be no real problem for her and whoever she'd brought with her.

But it _would_ wear her down a little, take the edge off when the edge would be needed to counteract the shock of what she'd be seeing when she saw what was waiting for her _here_.

They remained in silence for a few minutes, the air around them heavy and disconcertingly still for a place that should be, by its very nature, alive. No birds called from the branches above, no squirrels fought across the forest floor. Even the wind was holding itself like a breath.

Alistair shifted, his legs growing stiff from squatting and _tension_. This waiting was the worst.

It was then that the cat bolted, a streak or orange and white bounding back towards the clearing, and Bryce followed, going from still and contemplative to small legs pumping furiously as he flung himself away from Alistair, to follow Pounce.

Alistair barely had time to _think_ as he cast the smite, aiming it for Tale in the hopes that it would stun Bryce as he passed him but not hurt him _too_ badly.

It _stopped_ him at least, as he landed face first only a few inches away from the other mage, who staggered sideways before whipping around to glare at Alistair, one pale hand tightening on his staff in warning.

_I don't care _what_ you are to Ignacio_, his expression said. _We _can_ make it look like an accident._

Alistair kept his hands clear of his swords as he stepped forward to gather Bryce's limp form. The boy had grit on his face now, and a dead leaf clung to a damp spot on his lip, where he'd been chewing on it while trying to figure out what, exactly, might be going on.

_As if a child could unravel this._ Alistair pulled the leaf away, but the grit stayed. _As if _anyone_ could figure out what in the world was going on here. _

* * *

Fiona was back at the alcove, this time seated on a stone bench, her shoulders touching the wall behind her and her eyes focused on the star strewn sky overhead.

Alistair really had no intention of sitting next to her, even as he was lowering himself to the bench so that the distance between them was as great as possible considering they were sharing the same finite surface. And he certainly had no intention of _talking_ to her, since talking opened them up to all sorts of awkwardness.

Instead, he joined her against the wall, slumping and trying, as he'd been trying for the past few days, to wrap his mind around what he'd come to know in his heart was truth.

_Because who in the world would want to claim me as their son _now_?_

And, initially, it had been so _hard_ to care. So hard to care because what did it matter? He was a shadow of someone who'd almost mattered years before, someone who'd walked away from duty and love as if those things came along every day. He was, as he'd been when Arl Eamon's summons had found him, dying from the soul out. Only now, instead of whiskey poisoning his blood, it was resentment and confusion.

But at this moment in Castle Cousland, he wasn't resentful nor even terribly confused. Things were tough all over, he'd come to realize. Maybe they were always going to be bad. Maybe, had he been made king, he would have ruined an entire country and not just his own life. Maybe, had he stayed to fight the Blight, events would have unfolded differently and Brand wouldn't have been there to strike a final blow.

Then he thought of something buried with all the other things he'd forced himself to not think of these past few days- Brand on the pier, her shirt lifted and that gruesome scar that made fishermen and sailors drop away in respect.

"Do you know exactly what happened when Brand defeated the Archdemon?" Alistair kept his eyes on the sky. "Does she talk about it?"

Judging by how quickly she responded, Fiona had been waiting for Alistair to say _something_.

"She doesn't talk much about the Blight, to be honest," Fiona sounded as if she regretted this. "Most of what I've heard has been secondhand, from Oghren , Zevran or Teagan. I've only spoken to one other person who was actually _there_ and..."

From the way she trailed off, Alistair knew beyond doubt who that one other person was.

"What did _he_ have to say?" Alistair fought to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"I hated him, too," the admission was quiet. "But that's...he told me that the battle was as brutal as he could have expected and the memory that he'd hold on to was Brand and how she was fighting to die just as much as she was fighting to _win_. Which, of course, makes it all the more ironic that she survived..."

Alistair wanted to thank her for not saying his name, but her choice of words made him curious.

"Why _ironic_?"

She turned to look at him and he could see her brows drawn in confusion.

"Because the Grey Warden who kills the Archdemon _has_ to die. Besides our ability to sense darkspawn, it's why we _exist_," surprise was in every syllable. "Did nobody _tell_ you that?"

_No. _Obviously_ not._ He didn't say it flat out, because it landed like a blow to the stomach. He knew that Wardens were important, that Wardens were the only ones who could defeat a Blight. He'd always assumed it was the ability to sense darkspawn, or maybe the resistance to the taint. But it was a far greater sacrifice they were expected to make. That they _needed_ to make. _That _you_ left Brand on her _own_ to make._

"Andraste's flaming sword, _no_. Riordan...didn't. Dun..._Duncan_ certainly didn't," _Duncan_ came out of a choke; it was not a name he spoke very often and was a person Alistair thought of less and less ever since the realization that _Duncan_ would have been on Brand's side at the Landsmeet and _not_ his had hit him at some point over the years. Also...why _hadn't_ they told him? Wasn't that important information to share with your recruits or your fellow Wardens during a Blight? Had Brand _known_, before the Landsmeet? Was that _really_ why she'd recruited Loghain?

"_Duncan_ didn't tell you?" The way she said _Duncan_ was...intriguing. There was a warmth there, an almost maternal tone of exasperated familiarity.

"You _knew_ him?" Alistair finally turned to face her, his _mother_, and her mouth hanging ever so slightly agape mirrored his own.

"I...," her eyes darted away for a second. "Yes, he was conscripted shortly after I joined. He became a good friend..."

Then she was searching Alistair's face, her own pulled tight with uncertainty as she visibly struggled with what else she should say and how much.

"He named you," this was almost a whisper. "I was going to let Maric, but Duncan didn't want to spend all that time traveling with a nameless baby...Alistair was supposed to be temporary but we all…liked it. So, _Alistair_."

So, _Alistair_.

Alistair remembered with sudden and startling clarity the moment when Duncan had announced that he had been selected from amongst his peers to be recruited into the Wardens. Then they'd traveled together, and Duncan had trained him a bit and talked to him about many things, including Alistair's status as King Maric's bastard and how that would not figure into any decisions Duncan would make regarding his assignments.

But it _had_, or so Alistair had thought. Alistair had also thought Duncan was just impressed by something in him he could see during the tourney, something everyone else kept overlooking. As it turned out, he was just seeing the son of an old friend, a man who had once been a baby that he had held and named and why the _fuck_ couldn't have anyone told him this sooner?

He stood up, took five angry steps forward and then whipped back around.

"So I was chosen to become a Warden because Duncan knew my parents?" He didn't bother to control how loudly he spoke. "And here I thought it was because he wanted _me_, Alistair, and not King Maric's bastard or whatever _you_ are's abandoned son."

Fiona flinched at this, but her voice was calm when she countered with:

"You were asked to participate in the tournament because you were my son. You were _recruited_ because Duncan saw something special in you. Duncan would never take an unqualified recruit, no matter how much I wanted him to. You should know that, Alistair."

"I don't know anything, _Fiona_," he sneered a little and then his face fell. "I _don't_. My entire life was built on a lie that was perpetuated by someone I trusted completely. In six months, Duncan was more of a father to me than anyone had been my entire life. I was so _desperate_ for that, I clung to it through the entire Blight and...it was _Duncan_ I thought Brand was betraying at that Landsmeet. After he'd _saved_ her, she would let the man who let _him_ die become one of us."

"Duncan would have done the same thing," Fiona voice was sound defeat, but she _knew_. "Loghain would have been a valuable asset to the Wardens."

"Now _that's_ ironic," Alistair started backing up the ramp, his heart pounding against his chest. "Loghain _was_ a valuable asset to the Wardens; he helped end the Blight because _I_ left a void that had to be filled. And Brand...it was pretty much the only thing she did that was actually _like_ Duncan, and I abandoned her for it because I thought...he was the first family I knew. I would say the only family, but I was part of one during the Blight and was too blinded by..._hurt_ and _anger_ to realize what exactly I was running away from"

Fiona just nodded.

"It sounds like you know a _lot_, Alistair."

"Yeah," he snorted. "_Now_ I do."

* * *

They were drawing closer, Alistair could hear them crashing through the woods. Brand had never been terribly concerned about stealth, nor was she particularly adept at it. Alistair frowned down at Bryce, whose eyes were starting to flutter open. He had no idea what the child might be capable of, even after a smite. He'd killed a man with his first ever bolt of lightning, and could probably do it again if provoked.

Bowing his head over the child, Alistair began to methodically drain him of mana. It had been years since he'd done this on a regular basis, and Bryce was so _small_, but he couldn't risk him losing control again.

The mage turned to look at Alistair, this time with a knowing smirk.

"Ignacio might want to reconsider his plans for that thing. In Antiva, I saw a young apostate infiltrate the home of a very _powerful_ landlord. He blew himself up at dinner, took the whole damned family with him," Tale had eyes the color of river water, and they looked Bryce over as if he was a prize to be won. His lips parted slightly and his expression grew vaguely lewd. "He could be _very_ useful in the right hands..."

_Like my own_, those dull brown eyes said, and Alistair almost lost the fight to turn the full force of his templar skills onto him, if only for being the _creepiest_.

But Tale turned away at the sudden silence that stretched beyond their group, his movement so sharp that Alistair knew he was suspicious of it.

Bryce remained limp in his arms, and Alistair lowered him to the ground so that Brand would only be able to see the soles of his shoes.

"What are you doing?" Brenna hissed this from somewhere on his left. "She'll think he's dead and just _attack_."

Alistair nudged at Bryce with his boot and smiled coldly.

"But she'll be in shock for several seconds, at least. I know what a good mage can do with several seconds."

"And I am an _amazing_ mage..." Tale didn't look back. "Much better than whoever _she_ has with her."

Alistair's heart sank. Of course. _Anders_.

"This is going to get ugly," Alistair looked over to the silent assassin hanging back beyond Brenna. In both hands he clutched identical silverite daggers that gleamed even in the dim light of the forest. His posture spoke of readiness, his eyes scanning the forest.

Suddenly, there came an unsettling energy in the air that made Alistair's stomach tighten and the back of his throat itch.

Then the blade started to convulse, a subtle twitching in his limbs as _panic_ replaced _readiness_ and it wasn't long before he...

Alistair looked away before it was over, but the image of the man's throat splitting opening was burnt into his brain, and the soft, pulpy sound of flesh exploding would _not_ be easily forgettable. Brand had always loved that spell, from the first moment Morrigan had dispatched three genlocks by turning them into fountains of viscera that splattered her and her companions' armor with ichor. While Alistair and Leliana ran off to dry-heave behind the nearest tree, Brand had to be threatened out of hugging her favorite witch.

_Well _that_ was awesome. How long have you been able to do that?_

_'Tis a spell I discovered in one of Mother's old tomes, not something she was in a hurry for me to learn, I imagine._

_No, I imagine not. _

"Ugh. Melisande warned me that he had a _flair_ for the dramatic," Brenna's lips were curled in disgust as she wiped at her skirts.

"I have a flair for a _lot_ of things," the voice that came from behind them was forced bravado wrapped in a mixture of barely controlled anguish and _rage_.

Alistair and his remaining companions swung around to confront Anders, and Alistair didn't know if he should be relieved or scared at what he saw: the blond mage in his shirt and pants from dinner the night before, armored in nothing more than fresh blood that covered his clothing, his hands and, most chillingly, his throat. He was also ravaged, his brows drawn low and his eyes shadowed in heartbreak.

"Where is she?" Tale accented his question with a surge of light that did nothing more than _look_ impressive.

And the last thing Alistair wanted this to devolve into was a preen-fest between mages.

But, from the way Anders' expression held more sorrow than anything else, there was little chance of _that_ happening. He was fighting hard against something, his chest jerking up and down in unsteady breaths and Alistair could see that he was forcing himself to not look at Bryce.

"She's dead," he cringed away from the words as he said them. "She was...by an archer we didn't see coming."

* * *

Alistair held the top of the box in his hands, his eyes not believing what he saw within.

Nathaniel told him the package had been there when he returned from dinner, propped up on Alistair's pillows with no indication of who may have left it or what might be inside. Approaching with caution, Alistair almost set it aside to deal with some other time. He'd had enough tonight; he'd met his limit of surprises and _emotions_ and he wasn't certain his heart or his mind could take another sudden drop or turn.

Despite this, and because it was one of those evening when his impulses were being soundly ignored all over the place, Alistair took a seat on the edge of the bed and pulled the box into his lap, the weight of it oddly reassuring against the tops of his thighs.

The lid came away easily, and there was a note affixed to a length of fabric that covered the contents:

_Alistair-  
I think this belongs to you.  
-Brand  
(Because this __can't__ be easy)_

His brow lowered in confusion and he reread the note five times before he committed to pulling down the fabric, pale purple satin that matched the crystals glittering up at him...

_And you'll get your golem doll one of these days. I'll just wait until you're good and angry with me and then _boom_, golem doll will make everything better._

Although he _was_ angry, he wasn't angry at her _at all_ and the lack of anger made his fingers shake as he pulled the stone figure from its black velvet cushion, the cool of it and the weight of it in his hands connecting him with a moment in his childhood, Eamon's blue eyes shining as Alistair touched his new possession with a mixture of wonderment and _this is _so_ awesome_.

It was the same then as it was now, only _now_ there were other things it meant to him. It had always amazed him that an off-hand remark made early in their relationship would mean _anything_ to Brand. Yet she'd brought up the golem doll every time she found another statuette for him and had even joked with Morrigan about shrinking Shale down to a more pack-friendly size (which had earned no less than _five_ separate instances of Shale knocking her off of the road when she came too close and another incident involving the lake in Haven, which was obviously quite _cold _judging by the way Brand's teeth chattered their entire way back to camp).

_Where did she find this?_ It had been cleaned, the missing stones replaced and a couple of loose ones reseated. When_ did she find this? _

He thought of the dragon pin he'd bought for her, a token of affection that was left behind after the Landsmeet. What if she'd intended this in much the same way? What if she'd been holding on to it, waiting for the right time the way _he'd_ been waiting?

Had she kept it all these years, thinking he might return? Perhaps even _hoping_ he would?

His eyes fell shut, and he fought back a wave of something very close to relief. And he didn't know why exactly _relief_, but it settled something inside of him that he hadn't realized needed settling and his hands tightened around the doll, clinging to it and what it _meant_.

All the words on the pier, words that had eased his heart before he allowed himself to be torn apart again, and for no reason.

_I should have never let you stay lost. I should have went to the ends of the world for you, to let you know these things: that I didn't want you to leave, that I didn't mean to betray you, that I cared for you and missed you so much._

_And I care for you _now_, Alistair. I really,_really _do. And I want you to get back to who you _are_, not who you've convinced yourself you are.__That __is what I want more than anything, even if _I'm _not the one who helps you._

His eyes came open and he was seeing the golem doll through a veil of tears, the last thing Fiona had said to him echoing in his mind...

_It sounds like you know a _lot_, Alistair._

This was one more thing he knew, and the first of it all that was any _good_.

* * *

_No. Not Brand. Not _today_ of all days._

Alistair searched Anders' face for any sign that he was bluffing, his own chest drawing tight when he noticed the way the mage's jaw, held slightly off center, trembled as he ignored Alistair's beseeching stare and struggled to give voice to the request that followed.

"All I want is Bryce," this was _not_ angry, but plaintive and _desperate_. He was a man bargaining for the one thing he might be able to salvage. He had to know the futility of his begging, but he persisted. "I just want to take him away from here...you'll never hear of us again. _Please_. Without Brand...without her he's useless to Ignacio. And he's a mage. No threat to anybody's power now."

"Spoken like a true Circle mage," Tale scoffed and Anders' jaw clenched tight at the implication. "_You_ think he's useless, but my templar friend and I were just discussing that this was _not_ the case...weren't we, templar friend?"

"We were," Alistair responded quickly and could not ignore the depth of hatred that replaced _everything_ on Anders' face. "Ignacio just wanted him alive as Crow bait. Then he'd be a loose end and probably wind up...I don't know, at the bottom of a cistern in Denerim, probably. But his _magic_ makes him useful for...well, for a _lot_ of things."

He tensed, expecting a bolt of retaliatory magic to come, but none did. Anders was too occupied with being appalled, his lips curled in revulsion that Alistair could stand there and say such things, and with no concern at all.

Brenna glanced over at Alistair, the tiniest hint of a smile brightening her face and he swallowed hard on his own bile. _This isn't just a job to them, they actually get off on cruelty._

While Alistair was looking at Brenna, Anders made a move towards Bryce. It was a mere step, but Brenna threw out her dagger and Tale unleashed a wave of psychic energy that jolted the other mage, causing him to stagger back.

Alistair, immune to the spell and desperate to keep anyone else from trying to take his position as the one threatening Bryce, drew his sword, the blade that had once belonged to his father who'd hopefully never used it to do anything _this_ vile, and held it so that the point hovered over the back of the little boy's exposed neck.

Or so it would look to anyone who wasn't standing where Alistair was standing. He'd done this sort of thing enough, stabbing the ground a favored pastime in his templar training days, to know that only the patch of ground next to Bryce's head would be harmed should he lose his grip.

But Brenna and Tale were satisfied by the warning, and Anders practically _crackled_ with helpless frustration, his eyes almost black as loathing consumed them and his teeth bared into a snarl.

"You're a _monster_," he took a step away from Alistair, his pale hand tightening on his staff. "If you _hurt_ him, I will turn you inside out."

"If?" Tale laughed, his own staff flaring with a burst of cold light, Bryce twitching at Alistair's feet in response. "You couldn't feel that smite a few minutes ago? Just another sign of how whi-"

The mockery was interrupted by an arrow, a clean shot that drove itself clear through Tale's neck from the back; Alistair could see the bulge of displaced muscles from where he stood beside him. The mage dropped his staff, clutching madly at his throat even as his knees buckled beneath him, sending him forward to land with a dull thud on the forest floor.

Within seconds, Brenna had registered her fallen comrade.

"He brought others!" Her dagger was held out towards Alistair, her dark eyes narrowed and gleaming dangerously. "There's only two of us now, and who knows how many of them. Let's kill the mage, and take the boy...or kill them both. With that bitch dead, Ignacio has what he wanted in the first place."

Alistair nodded, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. The grip was awkward, but it wouldn't be too difficult to knock her down at least...

The second arrow from the forest caught her in the side, a strike so sudden that Alistair didn't even know why she was stumbling sideways until he saw the spreading bloodstain on her dress. Taking the opportunity to carefully adjust his posture so he could finish with Brenna before she had a chance to take anyone else down with her, Alistair glanced back up just in time to see an oncoming rush of bright light, followed by a dull jolt that caused every muscle in his body to go tight as he fell back into darkness.

* * *

Nathaniel snored.

Not that Alistair was in any mood to force sleep. He'd laid awake most of the night, his golem surreptitiously (and uncomfortably) tucked beneath his pillow, where he could touch it and think back to doing the very same thing as a child. It was a silly thing, but it was helping him maintain the relief and calm that had settled over him before he'd taken to bed.

Listening for the first signs of activity in the foyer outside their room, Alistair heard the changing of guards and arose to get dressed as quietly as he could in the dark. Not knowing what the day might bring, he put on his armor, the act of buckling into it uniting him to yet another version of himself.

If it weren't for Nathaniel snoring softly from across the room, Alistair could be convinced that a brief search in the darkness would yield a handful of still dozing Brand.

And she would wake up and have him back out of that armor in minutes flat...her mouth, hot from sleep, would press against his and her hands would be confident as she stripped him bare to claim him for herself before the day could do it first.

He took a deep breath to clear his thoughts of _that_ before he stepped out into the foyer. It was still dark outside, dawn probably less than an hour away, and Alistair had no idea where he wanted to be, so he ambled through the hallways of the castle until he came to a short hallway that ended in the keep's chapel.

As he stepped through the doorway, he was assailed by an overwhelming sense of sadness. Always before Chantries had filled him with peace, but this one held so much pain he doubted _anyone_ could ever feel true tranquility here.

Despite this, he took a seat on one of the empty benches...not that they weren't _all_ empty. He was alone here; there wasn't a single prayer candle that had been lit. He stood again and approached the altar, behind which was a small memorial- names carved into a stone tablet along with namedates of those who fell to Howe's men.

There were _so many names_, Alistair drew his finger tips along them and tried to imagine what it must have been like for Brand to have been asked _forced_ to abandon all those names, and for Fergus to return to his home that was full of ghosts and not one familiar face.

"Pretty shocking, huh?"

Alistair hadn't heard her come in. He spun to confront the voice to discover that he'd been joined by a pretty young woman with dark auburn hair that she wore in a braided rope down her back. Her skin was pale, and seemed paler in comparison to the hard, ebony eyes that were at odds with her otherwise soft features.

"I'm Brenna," a small hand offered itself to Alistair, and he accepted, noticing as he held it the faint scars that marred her knuckles and a number of nicks that ran along her forearm. Her fingers, too, were calloused against his. "One of Lady Melisande's attendants."

It had been _years_ since Alistair had anything to do with court or the nobility, but he remembered well enough that the noblewomen usually kept their attendants relatively scar and callous free.

He must have lingered too long. She withdrew her hand from his grasp and excused herself with a mumbled, "Good day, ser."

It was an instantaneous decision he made to follow her back to the family quarters, and to trail her again when she emerged a few minutes after the nanny had herded Bryce, Norah and Ser Pounce-a-lot past the alcove where Alistair waited (Bryce waved to Alistair, his eyes shining with recognition and Alistair could hear him chirping to his cousin that _Alistair was a pirate with me one day_).

Alistair didn't hear the exchange between Brenna and Melisande, but he saw the maid gesturing wildly, her black eyes cold, and when he realized that they were _leaving_ he managed to get out of the castle ahead of them, waiting just off the road for them to pass, Norah and Bryce hand in hand and skipping out ahead, and Pounce trailing behind. There was no sign of tension between either woman, Melisande holding her stomach as she discussed how she hoped the handoff would go smoothly and would Brenna protect Norah if things went awry?

He stayed a safe distance from the road, running at a half-crouch. There was much he'd learned in his time away; the ability to move in silence was probably the most valuable of these skills.

Melisande's pregnancy, and the fact that it was two women traveling with two small children, worked to his advantage as he was able to get well ahead of them, coming across a leather-clad scout a little over a fifty yards from a clearing.

He was an archer, an elf, and he held Alistair in his sights for several seconds before Alistair was able to find his voice, the lie coming as easily as anything had his entire life:

"Ignacio sent me...there's been a change in plans."

His fate rested on a pause of a full minute as the assassin weighed the words, sorting through them and, apparently, coming to the conclusion that Alistair knowing the _name_ meant that Alistair might actually be telling the _truth_.

There were eight of them in the clearing- three dangerous looking rogues, a duo with large shields and heavy blades and three mages- one Dalish female, one male elf and a third who was, apparently, the _leader_.

"Wow, Melisande. They say that pregnancy changes a woman, but I never thought it would be so _drastic_," his eyes narrowed. "I have to say that, while I _approve_, I'm not quite certain why he's here. Cardis?"

The bowmen nodded his head towards the mage and turned to Alistair.

"Tell Tale what you told me..._exactly_."

Alistair, remembering his old partner Nico and the way he was able to disarm even the most suspicious targets with his Antivan arrogance, tilted his head and waved his escort away.

"Tale, is it?"

_Hands on the hilt of your swords- idly and _not_ threatening._

"Tale, there's been a change in plans..." _look at the pretty elf and smile as if she might be somehow involved in these change in plans and that wouldn't be such a _bad_ thing...would it?_ "Ignacio wants the boy."

_Now look like you are completely over _everything_ and you don't care _how_ he responds._

"Really?" Tale tapped his staff against the ground a few times, nodding thoughtfully. "But he told _me_ he wanted the child dead as soon as we took care of his mother. Tie things up with a tidy bow and head out of here without any..._extra baggage_ that might draw more unwanted attention."

_Smirk, shrug and wait a few seconds. Let him think you _might_ be considering what he's saying but make it clear that you absolutely are _not_._

"Yeah. Change of plans? I think I mentioned it. _Before_ you were supposed to tie things up with a tidy bow. Now...you're not. Brand Cousland isn't the only person in Ferelden whose strings can be pulled with this child," _now shrug again and look towards an empty space like you'd rather be anywhere but here._ "I don't know if the name Zevran Arainai means anything to you?"

The name Zevran Arainai meant _everything_, it seemed. Not a single person in the clearing failed to react, Tale most of all, his lips pressing into a thin line as frustration hardened his bland features.

"Ignacio thinks he can catch Zevran with a _toddler_?" He threw his hand up in the air. "Fine. Then I'll let you deal with Princess _Melisande_. The less I have to interact with _her_ the _better_."

That was how Alistair came to be the Man in the Clearing, his sword drawn as Brenna and Melisande strode in, Bryce between them and Norah safely tucked between a large tree and a smaller sapling.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Brenna's dark eyes widened in genuine shock. "Don't you know who he is?"

"Alistair!" Bryce smiled and pushed his hair off of his forehead. "We were walking from the castle. But it's Ferguseses castle and not mine. Then Pounce ran off, but I called him and he came back. Anders would be sad if Pounce ran off and never came _back_."

And Melisande just stared at the top of his head, her expression completely blank.

"So you know each other? I'm hardly surprised."

"He's a Grey Warden...he travels with her, Tale," Melisande crossed her arms and positioned herself between the assassins and her daughter. "He can't be trusted."

Alistair snorted, rolling his eyes and praying that he didn't screw this up, because the odds of getting himself and Bryce out of this alive if he did were...none. There was no _way_ it could happen.

"That's rich coming from _you_, Melisande. Just because I didn't say the password and do the secret handshake when I met you? You've had children with _your_ target, all _I_ had to do was travel with mine for a few days. Earn her trust, find out what _they_ know...what they _think_ they know, and how they plan on retaliating. Now it's a matter of getting Ignacio his package..." Alistair pointed his sword at Bryce. "And things are all but done."

"You're here to collect _Bryce_...for _Ignacio_?" Melisande took a step back. "Why didn't you take him yourself?"

It was another laughworthy remark. _Oh, that Melisande_.

"I'm not _that_ trusted, Melisande. Not by Fergus. No doubt he'd have me followed if I tried to leave with Bryce."

The teyrna frowned slightly, her brow furrowing as she conceded his point.

"So take what you came for and let me get back to my family," Melisande reached her hand back to Norah, but the girl was now watching the events unfold from behind a tree.

"Bryce?" Alistair pointed his sword towards Bryce again, still trying to appear as if this wasn't the worst thing he'd ever done, even if it was all a ruse to get the child safely into his custody. Bryce nodded vigorously, his red hair falling into his eyes. "Brenna and Melisande have to take Norah back to the castle...but I need you to come with me."

Bryce only hesitated for a moment, his eyes narrowed as he took one careful step towards Alistair, and then another. It was a funny gait, his arms stiff at his sides as he began to sort of leap forward instead of walk. Alistair recognized it as something he did when he got ahead of Brand or Anders.

_He trusts you._ Alistair was afraid he was going to vomit all over his boots. _He trusts you and here you are holding a _sword_ directed at _him_ and Maker only knows what else you're going to have to do and say to prove you're just following orders and not trying to save a life. _

"Is Brand coming?" Bryce was only a few feet in front of him, looking up at him with clear green eyes that bore into him the way Brand's eyes had bore into him a thousand times before.

"I certainly _hope_ so," he looked past the edge of the clearing to where Melisande was struggling to pull Norah away.

"Why not Bryce, Momma? Why _not_?"

That was when the cat came back, streaking past Melisande to find his place next to Bryce.

"Hi, Ser Pounce!" Bryce's hand lowered so he could curl his fingers against the feline's orange head. "We're going with Alistair now."

The cat regarded Alistair with a disconcerting amount of suspicion, but stayed close to the child as Tale ordered them, along with Brenna and one of the rogues, to march west of the clearing.

"See you when she's dead," Tale smiled brightly as he addressed Cardis and the remaining assassins. "Assuming, of course, any of you _survive_."

They stopped about a half mile away, Tale ordering them to wait.

"And, to be honest, I wouldn't mind if none of them survived. I don't know...Cardis isn't too bad," he smiled cruelly at Alistair. "But he's not irreplaceable. Not _now_."

Alistair kept himself between Bryce and the others, crouching down so they were eye to eye.

Bryce focused his attention on the forest beyond, the edge of his teeth visible against his lower lip, his eyes curious and concerned, but not afraid.

_Not afraid_...not even when the scream tore through the forest and the rest of them quailed at the sound, _the rest of them_ including _Alistair_ because it was _especially_ terrible this time.

"That's Brand," Bryce whispered this, the corner of his mouth pulling thoughtfully. Pounce's ears went back and he pressed against the boy's legs.

"I know, Bryce," Alistair didn't blink. They weren't close enough to hear everything, but Alistair knew Brand well-enough to guess the six or so men waiting to ambush would be no real problem for her and whoever she'd brought with her.

But it _would_ wear her down a little, take the edge off when the edge would be needed to counteract the shock of what she'd be seeing when she saw what was waiting for her _here_. He hoped she understood when she saw him with her son. He hoped he'd get the chance to _explain_.

To explain and thank her for the _golem doll_.

They remained in silence for a few minutes, the air around them heavy and disconcertingly still for a place that should be, by its very nature, alive. No birds called from the branches above, no squirrels fought across the forest floor.

Even the wind was holding itself like a breath.


	41. Dying Sucks

**Note from SurelyForth: **Thanks to Sandtigress for her help in getting this thing out! You're the best :)

* * *

Anders was supposed to be good with words. _Words_ were how he got out of situations like _What do you mean I shouldn't be in the Knight-Commander's study holding the key to the supply passage? _or _I'm so sorry. I thought _everyone_ knew that _Kate_ was a nickname for _Regina_. _

Or _Fuckfuckfuck. I am a mage standing in a pile of dead templars and there are _people_ here who have seen me gleefully maging it up. _

Not that he'd ever been able to think of what _exactly_ he should have said when he whipped around to confront the two women watching him, one with the almost regal bearing of someone whose every step was towards justice and the other loose-limbed, covered in blood and looking like she was having just _way_ too much fun being covered in blood.

It was wide green eyes glinting in amusement that disarmed him. That and the fact that he could be in a _huge_ amount of trouble and she was, from the blood and the fun, quite possibly the sort who would find amusement in having him there, trapped and standing in a pile of dead templars.

_Fuckfuckfuck_. His hands would _not_ behave, his hips slippery and down by his side just too casual and she was really brightening up now, her lips curving and_ I bet she's not too bad under all that blood...and seriously, what is going on with my _hands_? _"Uh, I didn't do it."

So that was the _dumbest_ thing to say and, in retrospect, she should have written him off right there.

Instead, she listened to him ramble for a minute and then offered a half smile and an opening. And understanding and freedom and then a real smile that he would never forget.

It was the last thing he should be thinking about _now_, as he stood over a dead mage, a dead Brenna and the prone bodies of Bryce and Alistair, his hand painfully tight around his staff because his staff was the only thing keeping him anchored as he thought about a smile when he should have been thinking about _anything_ else.

_You've been worried all this time that you wouldn't be there to save her when she needed to be saved and what happened was..._

"Don't run in chucking fireballs...there's an explanation, Anders. There _has_ to be. Alistair isn't a _monster_, and I gave him hi-"

Suddenly she was gone from his peripheral vision, a small _Oh_ the only indication that anything was amiss.

He stopped walking and turned to see Brand holding her temple where the arrow had grazed, blood pouring between her fingers and her eyes were already a bit dazed when she jerked forward at the waist, the second shot finding a gap in her armor where she'd been struck earlier and her cuirass had pulled away from her stomach.

Acting automatically, he whipped around to face in the direction of their attacker, insinuating himself between the bowman and Brand even while he inched back towards her.

From a cluster of trees on his left, he caught a glint of silver bracers and within seconds his staff shot out a ball of fire that arced neatly across the forest and landed just inches away from the archer, knocking him back with an explosion of flame and all it took to finish him as a well placed bolt of lightning.

Anders had half a mind to try _one more spell_, maybe ice him or turn his blood to acid so that his final breaths were that much more excruciating, but Brand stumbled against him and then fell to the ground, her eyes closed and not just _unconscious_ but

"Brand?" He was on his knees over her, his hands already pressing against her blood-slicked cheek and neck, searching for a heartbeat or any sign of life but everything he sent out came back _nothing_."Brand, come on. _Please_. Maker, you _have_ to _come on_."

He placed his hands on her chest and tried to revive her.

She remained still.

_Maker._

He tried another crack of lightning to her heart, and his fingers went immediately to her neck and _nothing_.

_Fuck._

He grabbed her by the shoulders and started to shake, gently at first and then with more vigor because she could take it. This was _Brand Cousland_, scourge of darkspawn, dragons and bandits, and indestructible despite her best efforts to be very much destructed.

His hands were trembling as they relinquished her pauldrons and his chest heaved uncontrollably _this is wrong completely wrong I was just _with_ her...we were _just_ making love_. His body burned with the memory of her pressed against him and they had been waiting so patiently and it had only been, like, a _week_. Not even _they_ could make up for five years of waiting in a _week_.

"Please, Brand. _Please_, come back to me," he'd never wanted _anything_ more in his life."You _have_ to come back."

But she hadn't.

And he'd _had_ to go, to leave her where she'd fallen because _Bryce_ was still out there and _Bryce_ was all that mattered as he found his feet and walked away from her.

Now Bryce was safe; Anders could sense weakness, but no pains or injuries. He looked peaceful there on the ground, his eyelids fluttering as he'd caught some of the effects of the spell cast on Alistair.

Anders wanted to gather the child in his arms, to run him away somewhere safe and right away, but his hands, his chest, and his stomach were coated in Brand's blood and _no_ child should have to see that, not before they even _knew_.

So his shirt came off and, after some searching, he found a pristine corner of fabric to spit on and he started to swipe it against his stomach, the fabric turning crimson within a few seconds and not much was changing except for now the blood was swirly and _what am I doing_?

The shirt fell out of his hand and he _glared_ at his fingers for a moment, suddenly aware that they had failed him when he needed them the most. What was the point of a lifetime of hiding, and abuse, and not being able to be with the woman he loved if his sodding _magic_ couldn't even save her from a single arrow?

Not a _damned_ thing.

Hopelessness consumed him, and he realized how cold he was and _alone_ despite the man and child at his feet. Tears stung his eyes and every heartbeat was an agonizing reminder that _this_ was living now, when not one hour ago _living_ had been smiles and laughter and happiness captured despite everything being such a _mess_.

Such a mess, but he'd not really expected it to be anything less. Considering.

Worst of all was how he couldn't do anything to _comfort_ himself; tears wouldn't _fall_, sobs were caught trembling in his throat, he couldn't leave Bryce to go back to Brand and Bryce might as well have been surrounded by a forcefield because Anders just was not going to let the kid see him like _this_.

That's when he heard the most unexpected sound. Well, unexpected _here_ at least, since the last time he'd checked, cats were not usually forest creatures.

"Meow."

Like it was reading _meow_ from a card and practicing the _pronunciation_.

"Me. Ow."

This was more _insistent_ and Anders tilted his head because the sound was coming from behind a tree not thirty yards away and...

"Pounce?"

His cat was watching him, sitting meticulously as if he was always hanging out in strange woods, his fur ruffled and stained with blood.

"What happened to _you_?" Anders took several long strides towards Ser Pounce-a-lot, but stopped when he realized he couldn't very well leave Bryce with _Alistair_, the spell would wear off soon enough, but the cat was making no move towards him."Come _here_, Pounce. What's wrong with you?"

"MeOW."

He had no idea what _that_ meant, but Pounce wasn't the sort to play games so it seemed like it could be important. Anders cast another sleep spell and continued on, annoyance displacing hurt until shock displaced it all. Beyond Pounce, just a few feet away, was _Brand_.

And that was _not_ where he'd left her. And he most certainly had not left her with a bow and quiver full of arrows.

It _clicked_, the phantom archer who'd taken down Brenna and the mage. He'd been so caught up in falling apart that he'd not even wondered why his allies hadn't made themselves known.

He gave himself a half-second to figure that out before he was on his knees beside her again, this time hope flailing beneath his breast. It had to be _hope_, because if he thought she'd been laying nearby dying for a second time while he did _nothing_, he might not be able to live with himself.

"_Brand_," He touched her cheek, leaning in close only to fall immediately back when her eyes flew open to regard him with a momentary lack of comprehension.

_Something's not right._

"She responded to that," she blinked sleepily and began to look around, but only her eyes moved and one hand came up to point towards Pounce."He summoned me."

"Summoned?" It was Anders' turn to be baffled and then, "_Justice?_"

Brand nodded emphatically.

"Is she...she's in there isn't she? She's not gone?" Anders' heart was beating with such ferocity that he was afraid it might _explode_, especially when her head indicated affirmation.

"She wants to know if...Bryce is safe? And Alistair?" Her chest jerked up in a gasping breath and then her entire torso was off the ground as she sat upright, arms dangling listlessly at her sides.

"Bryce is fine, no injuries and...Alistair is still alive. For now," Anders felt hatred twisting his stomach as he momentarily gave himself over to that which had been gnawing on him from beyond the shock, the pain and the desperation. _This is Alistair's fault, _all_ of it. If he hadn't come back..._ With an intense force of will, Anders pried himself away from this line of thought. Obviously Brand still clung to some shred of hope that Alistair wasn't a duplicitous, backstabbing, life destroying..."They're both all right."

There was no use allowing abhorrence to distract him from having Brand _of a sort_ alive _kind of_ in front of him.

"Do you think this is...permanent?" Anders touched her cheek again and, despite his concern, he was so relieved to feel it warm against his fingertips.

Brand blushed, which at any other time would be _hilarious_ because it was Justice responding to Brand's response to _Anders_.

"She was never completely _gone_, and she is certainly here now," Brand struggled to her feet, holding her hand up to dissuade Anders from even _offering_ aid."I cannot abide..._more_, mage."

Standing, Justice was able to assume a greater measure of authority over Brand's body, although he seemed to be having some difficulty coordinating her limbs with any degree of accuracy.

"She is still a presence, she still maintains some control. _Kristoff_ offered no resistance," Brand's eyes were baleful."She is weak, however, and I do not know how long we can co-exist, nor how long I can assist in her survival. Breathe!"

And she drew another sharp breath.

Anders, careful to not touch her, ran his hand in the air from her temple down to where that last arrow had struck her side.

"What happened to it?" He'd not been paying attention earlier, more concerned with her being dead, and now, as he peeled her undershirt away the best he could, all he saw was a trickle of blood and a clotted wound barely an inch wide.

"It struck her ribcage, painful but not fatal. The poison is what fell her, but it was a temporary death at most."

"At most? Any type of death is _bad_," Anders felt his heart tighten as hope evaporated."I wouldn't be surprised if you being there is the only reason she's not dead _now_."

For a few moments, Anders just _observed_ her, wavering unsteadily on her feet as Justice familiarized himself with what he could and could not do with her stubborn limbs. When the spirit had first been sent to Kristoff's body, Anders had been openly amused by how awkwardly the corpse _shambled_, his gait like an infant newly learned to walk. Now, with Brand's body, this adjustment was disconcerting, her familiar face moving in unfamiliar ways and the expression was so _grave_ and he thought about a smile when he should've thought about _anything_ else.

You're free_, her eyes gave it to him. Then she'd smiled like setting apostates free was her favorite thing in the world to do. And he'd left, but he knew in his heart that he'd be back because how often did a man meet a beautiful woman who would just _do_ that? Of course, _returning_ ended up being the second most right thing he'd ever done._

His chest ached and tears finally came as he watched the spirit that looked like Brand getting used to her skin, his gratitude for what Justice was trying to do buried beneath thoughts of _what if this is the last I see of her? It's not even..._

"_Anders_."

He focused on her the best he could with his vision distorted and he knew it was Brand who'd said his name like a prayer of some sort as she tilted forward into his arms, falling not because Justice couldn't get a hang of mobility, but because Justice was _gone_ and only Brand remained, her breath shallow and her eyes shadowed by a distant concern that disappeared in the light of a tremulous smile.

"Did you kill all those darkspawn yourself?"

She was limp in his arms and clinging to life when Fergus and his men came tearing through the forest, nothing left for them to do but gather up the pieces of Anders' life- Brand being carried by two knights and a still sleeping Bryce cradled against his uncle's chest.

Anders led the procession back to the castle the way Brand had brought him, his bowed shoulders draped in Fergus' cloak as he tried to not think of first meetings and first smiles and the first time someone he'd loved had died in his arms.

He had no idea what would become of him if it happened again.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before Fergus was able to get away to deal with Alistair, every step he took towards the castle prison a small heart attack.

He'd never been good at hard justice. The Couslands were compassionate, they chose to dig past the surface of a crime or criminal to look at the underlying factors. Very few situations were ever entirely black or white, and, despite everything he'd been through, Fergus Cousland was a man who wanted to believe the best of every other man.

Especially a man who bore such a strong resemblance to old friends, as his newest prisoner did.

"Ser Taylor, you are excused," Fergus nodded at his guard, who allowed the smallest flicker of confusion before he bowed his head and followed his lord's command.

The teyrn waited for the low thud of the dungeon door falling shut before he began to speak, his voice carefully devoid of emotion. This was difficult, of course. One did not bear witness to one's unconscious sister stripped bare by healers in their attempt to keep her from succumbing to infection or a possible poisoning _another_ _poisoning_ without suffering some fraying of emotions at the sight of the scarred and tormented flesh exposed. Especially considering the history there, the history of them together and apart and how they were all they had from a life before...

_Never had a face registered such heartache and relief, never had Fergus been embraced with such ferocity; his little sister The Hero clinging to him and sobbing brokenly as the weight of being alone was lifted and she gave into a tidal wave of sorrow that she'd held back with variable degrees of success for the past year._

_"It's a good thing I came, sister. You would have drowned before long," he smiled through his own tears, pushing her hair away from her still bruised face and registering the very obvious fact that she wasn't the person she'd been before the Blight. There was a something gone from her eyes, a light that had been replaced with grief and guilt and unimaginable amounts of pain._

_"I might still yet," she bowed her head and he engulfed her in his arms._

_"I won't allow it. It is simply impermissible," he tapped the top of her head."We walk out of this place together or not at all...understood?"_

It would be especially hard to interrogate Alistair the way he needed if he started _crying_.

"I knew your father, of course, and your brother," Fergus could not miss the way Alistair flinched when he said this, his jaw tightening and his eyes darkening."I was close friends with Cailan, before. He was a good man who didn't deserve the death that found him. King Maric, too, was someone you could respect, even though he was far from perfect. But who among us _is_ perfect? I try to be as good as I can, as my mother and my father raised me to be. I try to be just, to see every side of every man before I pass judgment, passing judgment done only when necessary.

"There is nothing in this world that I hate more than ending the life of another man, outside of battle, of course. I'm not even that good at it _then_, Brand being the true warrior of the two of us. But I have my limits, as do most. You are well aware of what I lost, and you are probably aware of what else could have been taken from me today. After my Norah, Brand is the most important person in the world to me, and there is no guarantee that she will survive the night. To say nothing of what you did to Bryce. You took advantage of his trust in you and you _threatened_ him and you were going to turn him over to a man who would have used him for Maker only knows what sorts of sick ends, if he allowed him to survive past an _interrogation_, that is."

Alistair distress visibly mounted the longer Fergus spoke of Brand and of Bryce, his breath coming fast until he stepped forward to the front of his cell and wrapped his hands around the bars, his knuckles white from where he was squeezing the iron with all of his strength.

"I know how it looks," his voice was rough."I _know_, but I didn't want to hurt Bryce. I was trying to keep him _safe_. They were going to kill him, and I had to make them think that I was intervening on Ignacio's behalf."

Fergus snorted, unable to contain his disbelief.

"Anders told me you were holding a sword on him! Your father's own blade, too," the teyrn shook his head in disgust. Alistair dropped back from the bars, frustration compelling his hands to push back through his hair.

"Bryce was never in any danger from me, I swear it," Fergus could see the man's throat working."But there might be people in the castle who are still a threat."

Shoulders stiffening, Fergus nodded slowly. He'd hoped that, if nothing else, Alistair would be able _and willing_ to give them more information about those they were up against.

"Do you have names?"

Alistair's eyes fell shut, and the corners of his mouth turned down.

"I only have two...and it won't exactly help my case, to be honest," he cleared his throat before raising his gaze to bore into Fergus."Before I tell you this, I need to say something to you...I have no idea what you know about me, what you've heard or what Brand has told you."

"I know enough," Fergus interrupted coldly, remembering the night shortly after Brand's engagement had been announced that he found her curled up in a guest room in Arl Eamon's estate in Denerim, her face blank and her hands shaking uncontrollably_. I think I fell in love, Fergus. I...I betrayed a man who loved _me."But I will not prevent you from speaking."

"I was in love with your sister. Completely. She was the first woman I'd been with, and the only I ever cared for. After the Landsmeet, I was so angry that I threw her away without even _waiting_ to hear an explanation," tears shone in his dark eyes."I threw my entire life away, and blamed her every day when I wasn't thinking about how much I _missed_ her. Then I came back, and it's just been one thing after another and I _know_ that she's trying to make it up to me. She apologized for what she did, said everything I wanted to hear, but I still didn't trust her. Instead, I hurt her in the worst way I could think to hurt her, and I hurt _Bryce_.

"But she didn't deserve to be hurt, and I shouldn't have left her in the first place. I know that now. Well, I've _realized_ it and I hope that I'm able to tell her myself," he blinked a few times, rapidly."Most of all, though, I wanted to say that I'm sorry. And I thought that what I did this morning, following Brenna and Melisande out and intervening in Bryce's kidnapping, was a start. I took something from Brand that she might never get back, and I felt like I owed her."

Silence hung in the air between the two men as Alistair regained his composure and Fergus forced himself to keep _his_ emotions out of this. It would be easy to get caught up in the _romance_ of what Alistair had said, to see only the surface as everything about his expression and the way he spoke gave his words an air of undeniable truth. And if it were _truth_, then he had done something incredibly noble, something incredibly _noble_ and potentially _deadly_.

_Still_, Fergus reminded himself before he could fall for it, there's _no way to prove any of this. And this is a situation where making the wrong decision and trusting the wrong person could end up in a massacre._

He fought back the urge to vomit and decided he'd waited long enough.

"Who are they, Alistair?" Fergus put his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders. He was a large man, nearly as tall as Alistair and much broader of frame."Who in Castle Cousland remains a threat?"

Licking his lips nervously, Alistair could not meet the teyrn's steady gaze, nor match his commanding posture. Instead, he pressed his forehead against the bars of his cell and said this next bit as plainly as he possibly could:

"Brenna threatened the teyrna once, inside the keep. I saw her do it. However, when they were outside it became clear that...Lady Melisande knew she was in no danger, my lord. She spoke to Brenna as an old friend and she was on familiar terms with the man in charge of capturing Bryce. He was a mage named Tale," now he looked up at Fergus, Fergus having gone numb at what was being implied."Melisande also said that this would distract you from your unexpected guests tomorrow. Isobel was the only name I caught, but she may be...you know. One of _them_."

Without a word, Fergus turned on his heel and left the dungeon. There was nothing left for him to say to the man in the cell, no words that could convey the heat of his indignation, nor the entirely horrible flare of _doubt_ that grew a bit more insistent with every step he took.

_He's mad if he thinks you would believe him over your own wife,_ Fergus was alone in a long subterranean hallway and he leaned against the wall, the cool of the stone serving to anchor his thoughts. _But he also prefaced it all by saying as much. _

His head back, Fergus remembered the first time he'd met Melisande, at a luncheon in the palace in. She was one of a small herd of foreign dignitaries meeting with Anora to discuss the creation of a university within Ferelden. However _this_ luncheon was arranged for Fergus' benefit, a handful of Ferelden noblewoman also in attendance, and he could tell by the way Queen Anora regarded him that this was her way of saying that he _needed_ to find a wife, the Bannorn pushing for _someone_ to start making with heirs so that Ferelden's nobility wasn't entirely first generation within the next few decades.

He'd been through this before, of course, at every celebratory event and gathering since the Blight had ended. The only place he felt safe from such advances on his person was at Vigil's Keep (where the sole attempt at matchmaking had happened when a freshly recruited and deeply uninformed Sigrun had, hilariously, suggested that Fergus marry _Brand_). For the most part, these women were content to flatter him silly and gaze up at him through their lashes. Melisande, on the other hand, was distinctly disinterested.

And, for some reason, that made her seem like the best idea ever.

From the beginning of their courtship, he knew that he'd never love her. Oriana had been prim and a bit prissy, but she also had a scathing sense of humor and a surprising bawdy streak that showed itself only to him. Prim and _prissy_ Melisande had in spades, but she was also frosty and slightly judgmental. She disapproved of most everything he said, of the entirety of _him_ it seemed, but he persisted in pursuing her and she finally acquiesced to his charms.

Or, rather, she realized that he was a decent man who would never be able to give his heart to anyone as completely as he'd given his heart to his late wife, but who would do what he could to make his second wife _happy_. She'd told him this on their wedding night and he'd fallen asleep thinking he'd not made the _worst_ decision of his life.

But like his sister, whose own marital discontent he acknowledged in sympathetic silence (even though he'd always thought Teagan a fine man), he came to a realization along the way, soon after Norah had been born, that he needed _more_ and the woman he'd sworn his life to was never going to be the one to provide him with anything _more_ than occasional companionship and the heirs that came from that.

Not that he'd _cheated_. The only woman who'd ever come close to stirring in him anything comparable to the attraction he'd felt for Oriana was _Fiona_ and he'd already proposed to Melisande by the time he was asked to escort the elven mage to Vigil's Keep. _Never mind the dozens of _other_ reasons why Fiona was, is and will _always_ be completely out of the question._

No, he'd coped by throwing himself into work. It was probably easier for him than it was for Brand, not having temptation at his elbow day in and day out the way she had, but every day that Melisande quietly fought against him and his decisions, especially those he'd made to keep the castle secure these past few months, he missed Oriana. He'd missed Oriana more these past few weeks than he had since the months immediately after he'd returned to Highever. Something was wrong, and it went well beyond dissatisfaction with his relationship.

As he tried to come to terms with what he was _really_ thinking and feeling, he realized that there was no part of his brain that could see _anything_ clearly.

With a one last, ragged, breath, Fergus forced himself back up to the main level of the castle. His sister had been hovering just this side of death when he'd left her side to seek Alistair. As long as her fate remained uncertain, he would be incapable of trusting anyone, himself least of all.

And he was not a man who could take such risks.

* * *

"You need to stop that, Anders," Fiona's brows were drawn down in concern at odds with the anger edging her statement."You're going to make yourself sick again, and that won't help _anyone_."

Anders had just tossed back his fourth or fifth lyrium potion..._strong_ lyrium potion. The room was hazy at the edges now, but at least he felt like he was able to do more than hover and fret while Fiona examined bruises and contusions with her hands. He'd never been very good at this part of healing, his fallback being to blast magic at something until the _bleeding_ stopped.

But, after their fight this morning and the walk back to the castle, he felt depleted and was too impatient to allow his mana to build back up on its own.

Besides, how could he be patient when Brand was laid out like a corpse already, their efforts to mend the wounds on her arm and in her side not going as well as they should?

He _knew_ what it was causing the problems. It was her stupid thing, the reaver thing. He'd hated it from the beginning, as soon as he discovered how hard it would make his job. He'd hated it because sometimes, after the battle was finished, she'd still be _radiating_ pain and he could feel it eating at him, too, and that was incredibly _disconcerting_.

Most of all, he hated what a crutch it was for her. She could cope, he _knew_ she could deal with unimaginable amounts of damage. He also knew that she'd endured more heartbreak in a span of a few years than most people would see over their entire lifetimes. But she wanted all of the pain in the _world, _it seemed, and she'd taught herself to take it, never minding the dangers and never minding the fact that all he wanted to do was sodding make her _better_.

"What's _wrong_ with you, Brand?" This wasn't the gentle coax he'd used this morning; there was an accusation buried there. _Aren't Bryce and I enough to make you want to survive?_ "Do you _want_ to die?"

"_Anders!_" Fiona had gone so pale she might as well have lost every ounce of blood in her body."What's wrong with _you_?"

"You mean besides _everything_?" He pushed himself away from Brand's bed, his arms going across his chest."She's doing this to herself, Fiona. She's doing it to herself so she can't be saved."

The elf shook her head, her mouth setting itself in a hard line.

"It's the lyrium, Anders. Brand is...she's never _not_ wanted to be helped before. She knows Bryce is safe, why would she want to die now when _she_ can be saved?"

Fiona had a valid point. This had been true even in Amaranthine, when things were bad. But things had gotten steadily worse outside of what they were able to establish between each other. Things had gotten so much worse that even _he_ was starting to wonder how they could make it out alive and, if they did, what kind of life they'd have for their efforts.

And if _he_ was starting to think like that, Brand was probably about two steps away from hurtling herself off a very high cliff.

"Then why is she doing this? Why can't she let go so we can heal her?" This came out close to a whine, and he caught one of the castle healers roll their eyes."I saw that, _bumblefuck_. Why don't you get back to me the next time you see someone you love bleeding and _dead_. _I've_ got an expression of sympathy that you won't soon forget."

"Andraste's ass, Anders, they are trying to _help_," Fiona was clearly done dealing with him."Now. I'm going to give you one minute to kiss Brand on the forehead and say good-bye, and then I am sending you to the nursery."

"What?" _Good-bye?_ Good-bye in a _minute_? "You've got to be kidding me! I'm not leaving her side until...until _something_ happens. One way or another."

"Then you need to _stop_. Stop with the lyrium, stop panicking and stop berating the help. We're all here to save her. None of us want her to die and she _won't_. As long as she's not being continuously injured, she'll just take longer to heal. It's not the end of the word, here. Not by a longshot," Fiona looked down at her commander and Anders allowed his gaze to follow. If you could ignore the bruises and flecks of dried blood, she was beautiful. One of his hands went out, the back of it grazing her cheek and he swore that he felt the tiniest flinch against him as he pushed it back towards her hair."Yes, it's frustrating, Anders, but you should know how these things go by now. Being her lover doesn't mean you can undo years of _crazypants_ in a week, especially in a week like this one."

"But she died in my arms," his fingertip slid along Brand's jaw, the touch as tender as he could make it."Well, she was _dead_ in my arms and it was...failure. Failure as her comrade, failure as her friend, failure as her...she shouldn't have even been there, to be honest. She shouldn't be anywhere near combat until she's had time to rest and to recuperate and I let her get caught up in her _freakout_ and followed her every command."

"As if she would have let it happen any other way?" Fiona cupped his elbow, a rare gesture of comfort in response to a rare show of uncertainty.

"That's _charming_ when the stakes aren't quite so high," he tilted his head and observed the steady rise and fall of Brand's chest beneath the thin coverlet."My father once told me that the Maker designed children to be _cute_ so you wouldn't be tempted to abandon them in a forest when they were tearing the house down around your ears. Do you think that works with _people_? Maybe that's the secret to her survival."

"She's cute?" Fiona looked more than a little amused.

"Well, of _course_ she is. I was thinking...I don't know. I wonder, sometimes, why it is that there are people you can't let down, or can't relinquish," he felt his lips twist into a smile and he pulled down the blanket, pointing to a gouge in her side that was markedly less _gougey_ than it had been less than half an hour earlier."Am I just _that _good?"

Fiona laughed and shook her head, relief relaxing her features and Anders realized that nobody had bothered to tell her that her son was being held for his part in the conspiracy to kidnap Bryce and ambush Brand.

Tearing his attention away from Brand long enough to peer back at the door where Fergus had resumed a silent vigil over his sister, Anders could see pain, confusion and guilt stamped clearly on the other man's face. He'd expected anger, or betrayal, or the hard lines of justice being served and was confused enough by lyrium and Brand's own assertion of Alistair's innocence to be calmed by the lack of resolution.

_Calmed_ until the teyrn summoned him to the hallway, Anders joining reluctantly.

"Any change?" Sweat sat beaded on Fergus' brow and Anders could see worry darkening his eyes.

"Yes, actually. The healing is taking now, so that's a good sign. Did you get anything from Alistair?"

"I got a _lot_ from Alistair," one hand mopped at his forehead."Unfortunately, I think it only confuses the situation. What do you think? You've travelled with him, you saw what he was doing...could he have been protecting Bryce by pretending to be one of them?"

Anders felt his stomach tighten as he went back over his confrontation with Alistair in the woods. He'd been so upset because _Brand_ and then there was the sight of that sword hovering over _Bryce _and he was so _small_ and the only thing Anders had left.

But...Alistair had been with them for over a week- he had unfettered access to Brand and Bryce on several occasions and there'd never been the slightest indication that he wanted to _kill_ them. Even the grief he'd caused was borne from his own despair. As a matter of fact, unless Alistair was a skilled bard, his behavior had been absolutely consistent with his reality- a broken man confronting his demons and coming to terms with who he'd been and who he was.

Also, _assassins_.

"I don't think he intended to hurt Bryce," Anders closed his eyes and remembered the morning they'd left Amaranthine, how Brand joined him in bed and confessed that Alistair had kissed her."And I think he still has feelings for Brand, albeit _confused_ feelings but not _homicidal_ ones."

"_Dammit_." This came out quickly.

"I have no idea how to take that, to be honest," Anders leaned against the wall. This day had been, like many that had proceeded it, incredibly draining and all he wanted was for Brand to wake up so he could tell her that she was _definitely _not allowed to die again, and that he loved her because of some Maker thing, and then wrap himself around her so they could both sleep things off.

"I'm inclined to agree with you," this sounded like it hurt Fergus to say."But I have to have more than this to go on. I need proof or...," his voice trailed off until he was speaking only to himself."Proof or a _confession_."

"A confession?" Anders shrugged."Who wouldn't want to confess to an executionable offense? I know I would _leap _at the opportunity, but I imagine my punishment would be a bit more _personal_ than most."

And it was supposed to make Fergus _chuckle_, but the teyrn was beyond cheering and, in fact, appeared as if he'd just had the weight of a second world placed atop the _first_ world that was already wearing him down.

* * *

"Have you seen Alistair?" Fiona was washing her hands for the hundredth time that evening."Nathaniel and Sigrun have been by, but I haven't seen Alistair at all."

They were alone in the infirmary, Bryce having been taken back to the nursery only a few minutes before. It was too late for him to awake, but his day had been an eventful one and he needed to recount it all to his mother before he could sleep. Brand remained unconscious but was markedly less corpselike for their efforts. Anders' head ached from the excess of lyrium he'd consumed and a lack of anything resembling food. Bedtime was so close, Fiona _would_ have to ruin it with her _question _which would be impossible to answer without setting her off.

"Um, I haven't seen him this _afternoon_." This was, technically, true.

"Um, when _did _you see him?" She was clearly concerned by Anders' dodge.

"He may have been _possibly_ down with the, uh, kidnappers?" Anders was beyond exhausted, far too tired to avoid the truth."Fergus is holding him for the time being."

"Holding him? You mean...holding him in prison?" Fiona's eyes had gone wide with horror."He was with _them_? _Helping_ them? That's not possible, Anders. He's not a _monster_."

There was the space of an entire room between them, but Anders could see every line time had etched on Fiona's face as she sagged against the basic. The woman was clearly torn between what she felt _had_ to be true and her worst fears. What could be worse than the son you abandoned turning out to be sort of a traitorous, cold-blood assassin type?

"That's what Brand said...that he wasn't a monster," Anders took a seat on the edge of her bed."She knew that he was holding Bryce while we were being attacked and she still couldn't make herself think the worst. Fergus has spoken with him, and with me. We want to trust him, Fiona. Fergus doesn't even know he's your _son_, and he wants to believe that he's not..."

_...don't say "a traitorous, cold-blooded assassin type"...or "monster"..._

Fiona regained her footing, tears caught on her cheeks.

"So he's in the dungeon?" Her chest heaved with a small sob, this being the most emotion Anders had _ever_ seen her display."It's late, but I'm going to have Fergus take me down to see him, I think."

"Fiona," Anders stood, but the warning got caught in his throat. He had no idea who _he _was to caution someone to avoid rash action."Good _luck_. I think I'm going to get some sleep."

With Fiona gone, Anders quickly barred the door, snuffed out all the lamps save for the one closest to their exit, and then threw back a final lyrium potion before he tucked in behind Brand, one arm tight around her waist, his hand against her chest.

Breathing steadily, every exhalation drawing her closer until the line of her back was indistinguishable from the curve of his chest and stomach, he cast the sleep spell only moments before he sensed he was about to drift off himself.

He found her, as he hoped he would. The ocean looked the same as any other, steel waves reflecting the blue sky above as it lapped at rugged terrain. She'd found a small, sandy alcove and was sitting with skirts pulled up so that her legs stretched long and bared in front of her while she watched a flock of seagulls wheel above the shoreline.

"The Fade almost got it right this time," she looked over as he settled beside her."I think the gulls might be Bryce. He _was_ here."

"I hope that you were expecting me," he studied her face for a few minutes, the way her eyes were clear of worry, and her mouth appeared readied for happy pursuits, like smiling or laughter or kissing."I hope I look as good as you do...I always thought this place was horrid for my complexion."

This brought all three of those aforementioned things and she smelled of sunshine and saltwater, roses and wine, and he wanted to savor that because he knew when they awoke she'd smell like the inside of his medicine bag, the way she had the first morning they'd done anything beyond _desire_.

As he kissed her, his palm moving along her jaw so that his fingers could sink into her hair, he felt her hands curling into the collar of his robes, robes being the only clean clothes he'd had at the castle.

"This is nice, Anders," her eyes were on his, only inches away and their mouths were even closer."This is what I wanted it to be."

Bryce streaked by them, his feet churning the sand up as he shouted a _Hi!_ that barely registered as he passed.

"_Nobody_ gets this, Brand," he allowed his mouth to bump against hers and she held him there, her arms winding around his neck so that he had to extricate himself, amused by her _insistence_."There's something that I need to tell you, but you'll have to wake up for it."

"Blast," she frowned prettily even as her eyes gleamed with humor and he'd forgotten that it could be like that."Just for _you_."

She was stretching back into him when he awoke, the friction of her body moving against his more reassuring than...well, _most _anything.

"You're never allowed to die again. _Ever_." He splayed his hand across her chest."And I love you. Possibly because you were designed for that purpose."

"Hmmm," she turned her head back towards him so he could see her profile in the faint lamplight."_Kinky_."

He laughed, moving forward so his lips could press the corner of her mouth. There was a small chance he would clarify what he meant in the morning, but he left it like _that _for now. Besides, he had every confidence that she knew exactly what he was trying to say. She may be part corpse now, but she wasn't _stupid_.

"Dying sucks," her hand covered his, her fingers filling the spaces between his own."I think. I just know I was someplace that was incredibly short on Anders and Bryce. This is no beach, but it's where I want to be."

He kissed her neck and chuckled again when he realized she really _did _smell like a medicine bag. She made a small _curious_ noise that he let go unanswered. He might remind her in the morning, but it was unimportant now.

It was neither her, nor him, nor their hands clasped tight as they returned to sleep. Therefore, unimportant.


	42. Trusting

**Note from SurelyForth:** Late update _again_, and this time I got a little overly wordy. The downside? The ending of this chapter. The upside? The next one will be out within the next twelve hours. Yay!

Maybe.

Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing. I don't give you guys enough love here, and you deserve it _all_.

* * *

Fergus was being strangely unyielding.

Actually, _nothing_ about his demeanor was normal. His usual good humor was nowhere to be seen and his broad shoulders were hunched forward as he sat at his desk, staring uncomprehendingly at the surface cluttered with ledgers and letters and orders to be signed.

Fiona was glaring down at him, arms across her chest to hide the largest of the blood splatters from her day spent in the infirmary. She wondered if it was the sight of other stains that was keeping him from making eye contact, or something else.

"What harm can it do for me to see him, Fergus? Go with me, and you won't even have to worry about me melting the bars of his cell and letting him out," she winced as soon as this left her mouth. Apparently _Anders_ had rubbed off on her. "I just want to talk to him for a minute."

Fergus sighed, his head lowering so that his brow was very nearly planted against the surface in front of him.

"Why in the Maker's name would you want to see him?" He looked up. Well, he raised his gaze to meet hers, his chin staying down so he seemed like a great, shaggy bird and, had Fiona not spent the past five years working with his sister in a fairly close capacity, she'd be completely thrown off from her task by his _weirdness_. "Just...tell me and I'll think about it."

Fiona inhaled sharply and held on to that breath so long it started to burn in her lungs.

It was one thing for her to have told Brand about her relationship with King Maric. Brand understood better than most what it was like to find the right person at the wrong time and in the absolute worst of situations. Fergus was a nobleman married to a noblewoman. As far as she knew, the furthest afield he had gotten from that was an adolescence spent flirting with maids.

A maid was not an elf, or a mage, or an _elven mage_.

Then she thought of her son, of their traveling companion as he flickered between lost and found and angry and oddly accepting of the madness that surrounded them. She thought of him in a prison cell, cold and alone. She thought of him his entire life, alone.

So alone that he clung to anyone who came close enough, anyone who acknowledged that he was wanted by them. So alone that, when things fell apart, he'd had no one to turn to.

"Alistair is my son, Fergus," her voice was so remarkably calm, even as Fergus' face went slack with disbelief and something else she couldn't quite place but was close to disappointment. "I had a brief relationship with Mar...King Maric, and when I found myself with child, I decided that he'd be better off being raised by someone else, to avoid the prejudices of his elven heritage."

"Why are you telling me this?" Fergus was sitting back now, his brow furrowed.

"You asked?" She couldn't hide her confusion. "Didn't you?"

"No, that's not what I meant," he pushed back from his desk and stood, filling the room in a way that Fiona had always associated with Maric. "Why are you telling me...those other things. It obviously hurts you to say it, and I don't need to know to understand."

Now _this_ truly surprised her. Fergus was a man devoted to his wife and child, who had _lost_ a child, she'd expected him to be at least momentarily appalled.

"I assumed that you would wonder, is all. Brand did." _But Brand also had an emotional attachment to Alistair, so it wasn't just to the idea of a child abandoned by his mother._ "She was...shocked."

"I bet if she found out now she wouldn't be so shocked," he rubbed one large hand across his face. "I'm learning quite a bit about sacrificing one's happiness and safety to protect someone you love. "

He went to a small cabinet at the rear of his office, a handsome, cherry piece that Fiona imagined had been passed down through several generations of Couslands. Much of the furniture in this room bore that same distinction. Brand once told her that most of their belongings had been destroyed by Nathaniel's father and his men. For some reason, this room had remained untouched.

_Maybe that's why Fergus lives in his office,_ Brand had no place like that in her own home. Besides the furniture in Teagan's study, Brand's apartment was furnished with bits found around the Vigil. _It's the only place that feels like home._

Fiona flinched when she realized that Fergus was offering her a set of keys, iron keys that might as well have "Dungeon" etched along their shafts. She took them tentatively. They were surprisingly heavy in her hand, the metal frigid against her skin.

"Free him if you think he should be freed," Fergus' expression was unreadable. "I have guards on the family quarters and the infirmary. I'll tell Ser Taylor to escort you, but you can send him away at your preference."

He led her into the main corridor of the keep, his shoulders squared now as he assumed a more commanding posture.

_The better to give mad orders to his men, I assume._ Ser Taylor visibly balked at the Teyrn's request, but could offer no vocal opposition.

"I can handle myself, Ser," she gave him a hard glare. "No need to fret for _my_ safety."

Taylor nodded and then led the way, his footsteps heavy ahead of her as they entered the corridor that would lead them below the main level of the castle, a dimly lit passageway that branched off in several directions.

"There he is, ser Mage," Taylor was clearly hoping she'd ask him to stay with her.

"I appreciate your time, Ser Taylor. You are dismissed."

He kept his tongue, but she saw his fists clench as he strode away, an aggressive gesture for someone who ostensibly wanted to keep her safe. She stared after his retreating form for far longer than was necessary.

She was not sure what she wanted to do or say. It was panic and guilt that had taken her to Fergus and stubbornness that had kept her after him. Now she had what she wanted, and was realizing what she wanted was a _gut_ thing and not anything that could be easily put into words.

_Free him if you think he should be freed._

How did someone decide that with no proof? Fiona could assume her offspring, and Maric's offspring, incapable of doing anything as heinous as holding a child captive at the end of a sword. She could assume this and be entirely wrong because Alistair was neither her _nor_ Maric. He was bits of both of them, wrapped in one and as lonely as the other. Or maybe Maric had been lonely, too. He'd never remarried, that she knew of, and her enduring image of him would be of a large man being swallowed by a larger palace and the gargantuan responsibilities that came with the trappings of _king_.

King. _Maric and I did everything we could to ensure that our son had a life devoid of the pressures and pains that we faced. Would him becoming king have been such a bad thing, compared to this?_

She stepped into the prison. Alistair was waiting for her, standing in the middle of his cell , his arms straight by his side.

He watched her approach, his eyes that were much like her own inscrutable in the torchlight. When she stopped, his shoulders settled down as if he'd been tensed the entire time, fearful that she might stumble or fall.

"I have something I need to say to you," Fiona went into a strange state of being wherein she didn't know from second to second what word was going to next fall out of her mouth. "I need to tell you that, despite what you might think about your father, or Duncan, or me, we sacrificed so much to make your life better."

She almost expected him to scoff at this. She certainly didn't expect for him to lean forward against the bars, eyes taking in her blood-splattered robes and concern furrowing his brow.

"Will she be all right?" He sounded a bit breathless, as if he wasn't entirely certain that he was allowed to ask such a thing. "Fergus said that she might not make it."

Fiona opened her mouth to retort and then closed it with an audible clicking of her teeth as she examined the man in front of him. _Really_ examined him. He looked so much like his father, tall and blond, that the hardness he exhibited seemed wrong even beyond her own hopes that he wouldn't be hard. Hard was _her_, hard wasn't Maric, and the flip was disconcerting.

But right now, there was something softening his features and it was more than concern.

It was anticipation. And maybe even a little bit of...Fiona shook her head. That was not a road she'd go down, although she immediately sensed the subtle gnawing of jealousy at her stomach.

"Brand should be fine, although it _was_ rough this morning. Apparently she died, but Anders swears it was only a little," Fiona frowned. "She has a Fade spirit that helps her sometimes, and Pounce summoned Justice and she was able to...," Alistair's eyes were wide with disbelief. "I wouldn't even ask if I were you. I can hardly understand it myself sometimes and I've seen it in action. What matters is that _Anders_ thinks she'll be fine as long as she can keep from running into certain death for awhile."

"For most people that would be easy," Alistair's lips twitched in the beginnings of an appreciative grin.

_That's charming when the stakes aren't quite so high._

"You do realize that she loves him, don't you?" Fiona hated herself for saying this, but she hated the idea of him getting worked up only to be crushed anew even _more_.

Wincing, Alistair pulled away from the cell door and retreated a few steps.

"I _do_ realize," his voice was surprisingly steady. "I'm just coming to terms with the lack of anger towards her. And her not _hating_ me. Not that...not that _that's_ a given, now that she probably thinks I'm some sort of..._monster_."

Fiona was genuinely taken aback at the _clarity_ of his response. It seemed that these past few days, since Brand had handed him his duty back, his mind had been cleared of much of the fog and confusion that had kept him so unpredictable before.

"She doesn't, Alistair," this came out in a rush. "Anders told me that, even after they realized you had Bryce, she couldn't believe that you would hurt him. I'd say that Anders agrees, considering he merely knocked you out and didn't do something more aggressive or _fatal_."

This brought him back to front of his cell, his forehead pressing against the bars and, for a moment, he simply remained silent and still, staring at the floor beyond his prison with the blankest of expressions.

And then he _smiled_, and it was warm and so _familiar_ and, for the first time since Fiona had handed a small bundle to a king who had no _idea,_ she knew, _really_ knew, that she was seeing her _son_.

"Oh," she was caught completely off-guard by the tears that were spilling down her cheeks, her hands flying to her face to wipe them away at the exact moment that Alistair glanced up at the startled noise.

For a brief second, they were connected. They were connected at their relief and recognition of what it was that had just happened- a mother who had no clue how to be such saying the right thing to her son, the _right thing_ leading to smiles on unsmiling faces and then joy at the sight of them.

It was fleeting, Fiona turning away and Alistair dropping his head almost immediately, but it filled her with a rare amount of comfort. _Things aren't hopeless for us after all, the door has been cracked and light is spilling out and not darkness._

Worried that something might happen, or something might pop out of her mouth that would eradicate what she'd just accomplished, Fiona held out the keys.

"Fergus told me that I could let you out, if I wanted," she moved towards the cell, her eyes occupied with trying to ascertain which key would work here, and she was not expecting the large hand that came out and caught her own.

"Don't," he pulled back as if the contact had burned him. "It's better if Melisande thinks she's gotten away with it. If I'm out, she might do something stupid or dangerous. Or both."

Fiona jerked at this. _Melisande?_

"What do you mean?" She swallowed back on a lump in her throat. "What does she have to do with any of this?"

Alistair rubbed at his eyes, tired and obviously uncomfortable sharing this information with her.

"Melisande knew...she probably pretended that she'd been forced to hand over Bryce, but she gave him willingly," his expression grew dark and desperately unhappy. "Her daughter was crying for Bryce, she could sense the danger, and Melisande just _left_ him with people who wanted him dead. And _me_."

"So you protected him?" Fiona thought of Bryce and her heart ached at the thought of anyone being able to hurt him, or put him in harm's way, or betray his bottomless trust. "By...pretending to be one of them?"

He nodded and moved to the back of the cell.

"I don't know what changed Fergus' mind, and I'm grateful for...the trust being shown in me," his brows remained lowered. "I'm willing to stay down here until things have been sorted out. It's safer for everyone, I think."

It was Fiona's turn to nod, and push down on a swell of her own sorrow. She hated leaving him imprisoned, especially now that she had no doubts that he'd done something remarkable. But he was right. If Melisande was what he was claiming, and it was distressingly easy to see it as such, then Alistair being set free would be an incredible threat and, with the revelation of what the teyrna had allowed to happen to Bryce, there was no telling what else she'd be willing to do in order to protect herself.

* * *

Fiona emerged from the dungeon alone and unharmed. Fergus merely raised one eyebrow and she shrugged in response.

"It was his choice."

_Unexpected_. Fergus felt his brow furrow, but he kept his thoughts secret as he escorted the elf to the family quarters, distracted to the point of rudeness when he arrived at the nursery door alone and realized she'd left his side and he'd neither noticed nor bid her good night.

"Willow told me that you risk being up all night if you go in there," Sigrun was keeping guard with Ser Jenkins, an older soldier who'd served in Loghain's army before the Blight. Unfortunate enough to have caught the attention of Rendon Howe, Jenkins had been on the receiving end of months worth of torture that left him permanently disfigured and unfit to serve in the royal forces.

He could still fight at close range and, when he'd approached Fergus for a position at Castle Cousland _any enemy of Howe is an enemy of mine_, Fergus had leapt at the opportunity to help out a man whose life had been nearly destroyed by Howe' paranoia and ambition.

Now the man looked as if he might rather be back on the rack, his one good eye pleading for some quiet, please, because this dwarf never shuts up. Fergus mustered a reassuring smile for his man and clasped Sigrun on the shoulder.

"Perhaps then we should all be a little quieter."

Sigrun nodded emphatically, pressing her lips so tightly together that they disappeared in a thin line. That brightened Fergus' mood for some reason, a gift of the quirky dwarf.

Inside the nursery was dim. Willow had decided to stay the night, turning away the maid that usually sat with Norah in the evening, and she was tucked in a far corner of the room, reading a book by candlelight. Norah and Bryce were tucked into bed together, both sleeping soundly. After nodding acknowledgement to Willow, Fergus approached his daughter and nephew, his smile widening when he saw that Norah had her arm flung across her cousins face.

Ser Pounce-a-lot was curled up near Bryce's head and his golden eyes seemed to echo Fergus' amusement, as if to say _the boy has it coming. You want to talk about an annoying _sleeper_._

Not wishing to wake the sleeping children, Fergus merely kissed his finger tips and pressed them lightly against pale, round cheeks. First was Norah, who looked so much like his mother and he'd never been more grateful of that fact that he was now.

_What if Melisande _is_ one of them? What if she really did hand Bryce over to be killed, or kidnapped, and set Brand up to be ambushed?_ Her closed his eyes against an onslaught of tears and repeated his gesture with Bryce, doing so calming his flair of anguish. For a child who had been through so much these past few days, who'd been through _and_ seen so much, he remained as bright as ever, lips turned up at the corners even at rest and Fergus allowed himself a few brief memories of his own son. Oren had been much like Bryce. Sweet, inquisitive, _bright_.

And it was so crushingly unfair that such brightness could be extinguished, and extinguished so _cruelly_.

Guilt flooded him. It was guilt for leaving, guilt for surviving, guilt for attempting to replace Oren and Oriana. Fergus had been through this with Norah, the first time he'd held her it had been conflicts of immediate adoration and the reverberations of _but what about Oren?_ While his love for her had never been diminished, such a thing impossible when he was confronted with her big brown eyes and charming little voice, there were nights when he fell asleep in his office feeling as if he'd done something wrong to his son, something wrong that might _never_ be forgiven.

The hand on his arm was a surprise as he whipped around, the tears that had come despite his efforts rendering him unable to clearly see. Fortunately, Willow was almost as familiar a face as his own. Her mother had been their Nan and Willow, two years older than Brand, was a fixture in their lives until she'd found a position at Bann Loren's estate when she was thirteen.

She'd returned, of course, after the Blight. Her father was in chronic poor health and with her mother dead, Willow was the only family member who could provide him with financial support and the aid he required. She was another who'd been welcomed to work at Castle Cousland. Welcomed because of her familiarity, and her ability to calm him with a simple touch of her hand.

"You can stay here for the night, if you wish," she looked towards the second bed. He slept there on a regular basis, _too _often considering it was made for a child and he was a man, and a large one. The idea did tempt him but he declined the offer, touching the back of her hand to indicate appreciation before he slid out of the nursery and towards his own quarters.

Towards his own quarters that had never felt like his own and when he entered he forced his face into composure and decided to play the tears off as being for Brand.

She'd survived, after all. She'd survived to fight again.

As the door fell shut behind him, and Melisande rose up from her settee, surprise at his presence on every inch of her face, Fergus wondered if he would be so lucky.

* * *

Melisande had never found Fergus to be particularly _anything_.

Tall, which was good. Nicely shaped, which was better. There was something perpetually shaggy about him, fitting perhaps for a Fereldan man. He was, at times, like a great, shaggy _dog_. Similarly hapless and overly trusting, despite knowing where overly trusting had gotten his father.

Now that he was in their shared quarters _a rarity indeed_ his eyes wet and his expression unimportant, she bit back a wave of disgust and slid into her role.

_Prim, fragile Melisande._ Melisande who had been taken at knifepoint and asked to sacrifice an innocent child for the safety of her own. All he needed to see was residual shock and, perhaps at some point in the future when he was crying over his sister _when that bitch was finally dead_, she could collapse against him and vent her grief over what she'd done here today, seeking pity for the choice she'd been _forced_ to make.

She tried to smile at her husband, eyelashes fluttering and caught with tears, but it was all too much.

"This day has been very draining, dear Fergus," she tilted her chin up to look at him, going back slightly further than normal because that would clear the view to her swollen stomach. "I spoke with Cloris this afternoon and she is considering placing me on permanent rest until the baby arrives."

Fergus stood very close, radiating heat, and she hated how _hot _he was. On the few nights that they'd spent together, she'd been miserable in his arms. Not that _he_ knew. He assumed that her hesitations towards intimacy were part of her prudishness. Really it was because he did nothing for her and in fact _bothered_ her on a very base level.

It came back to him being too _trusting_. It made _her_ job easier, but there was no appeal in it. In Antiva, she'd been lovers with a man who never left his back to a door and carried four daggers on him at all times, sleeping with them under his pillows when she gave him the chance to _sleep_. _That_ was a man who knew the world and how to survive in it.

"I know it's been terrible for you, Melisande" one large hand reached to cup her cheek, and it was like a fly buzzing in her ear and she had to _take_ it with a forced flash of gratitude. "I wanted to keep you safe from all of this. For you own health and the baby's. I feel as if I've failed you."

Melisande very nearly snorted at this, but saved it by lowering her head before he could see her features contort.

Contriteness was necessary. She'd been overstepping her bounds with him more every day and she was paranoid enough to think that even _he_ was going to catch on before long, catch on and realize that _his_ Melisande did not push at the bounds put forth by her husband.

"Do not think for a second that you have failed me, my husband," she stared at his ugly brown boots and spoke with her softest cadence. "For I am the one who nearly failed you, and your family."

_Fuck_. His family.

"Lady Guerrin fares well, does she not? Cloris told me that the healing was going well," Melisande had mentally kicked the castle physician when she'd shared _that_ news.

"Yes, Brand is fine," his hand fell from her cheek and he pulled back a step or two, seeming suddenly nervous. "As is Bryce. He and Norah are both sleeping."

_And that damnable cat is with them, I assume. Smelly beast._

She put on a mask of affection and caught her husband's forearm.

"Norah was so brave today, Fergus. You would have been proud of our daughter," she punctuated her compliment with a small squeeze. He stiffened at this, his brow lowering. That was an unusual response, to be certain, unusual enough that Melisande became _concerned_. "I...would otherwise not ask, Fergus, but this day has been so fretful and I am having trouble getting the image of the bastard threatening poor Bryce to fade. Would you mind overly much to...to lay with me tonight?"

Eyes widening with surprise, Fergus covered her hand with her own.

"Lay with you? You mean?" She nodded, her cheeks warming. "Is that wise, Melisande? Considering everything you've been through today. If you are soon to be on rest, I cannot imagine Cloris looking kindly upon such activities."

His hesitation was _also_ bizarre. They'd had sex a handful of times during her first pregnancy, Cloris _encouraging_ the activity for some horrible reason. Fergus didn't push her for it, even when she wasn't pregnant, but he'd definitely never demurred when given the opportunity. Usually he'd be naked before the offer was even out of her mouth, sheepish on top of shaggy.

"Your point is a valid one," she tried to appear as if she was trying to _not_ show her disappointment. "I was only...you probably have more pressing concerns. I assume that he will be executed?"

Fergus' eyes darkened. Besides being easily played, he was also incredibly soft-hearted.

"I was hoping that he'd give me more information. Names, contacts, any sorts of leads," Fergus was already back at the door. "He's maintaining silence, unyielding in his claims of innocence but with nothing by way of proof to support them. I'm going to leave his sentencing to Brand. She was their target, so it seems fitting. Good night, dear wife."

With those hollow words, he was gone and Melisande left alone to fume. As long as that stupid bastard was alive, he'd be able to say all sorts of things that Fergus would probably never believe. Seeds of doubt and suspicion would be sown, however, and that would be _bad_. Her position was a precarious one, solidified only by the fact that she was the mother to the heir to the teyrnir. It would not be impossible for him to dismiss her if he _suspected_.

And who was to say he wouldn't trust that blond oaf? He was a slippery one, even Melisande had been well convinced that he was little more than a drunk, a bastard in every sense of the word. However, it seemed that he'd been able to find a reversal in his fortune with Ignacio.

That was certainly a familiar story. The same had happened to her after a decade of service to the Crows, given by her father the desperate nobleman in the hopes that he would earn favor from the order. In the end, he'd gained nothing more than the sum total of what he'd normally spend on feeding, clothing and educating a daughter.

She'd been trained to be a lady by the Crows, her breeding worth something to them, and she'd spent the better part of her teen years bedding and blackmailing a stream of married noblemen, merchants and high-ranking officials who held information or power that the Crows and their clients desired.

Ignacio had decided that she was better than that, that she was more than a particularly well-bred whore, and he'd started giving her jobs that involved increasingly subtle efforts. He was undeniably pleased when she'd proven quite adept at reading marks and presenting to them the exact woman they needed her to be. It was a useful skill, more bard than Crow, and the very reason he summoned her after he relocated to Ferelden. He had left Antiva with plans for retirement that were put aside when he recognized he was sitting in the center of a firestorm and that the country left standing in its wake would be rife with opportunities for men such as he- cunning, capable, resourceful, and a beacon to those Crows who wanted distance from the order but who were unwilling to risk their lives to leave it completely.

Melisande touched her stomach thoughtfully, the child within shifting as he always did when she thought of Ignacio. She'd taken it as a sign the first time it had happened that this one was, indeed, her master's own.

"And even if you're not, you _are_," she murmured this aloud, as touching became massaging, tension releasing with every pass. "As much his as I am and will _always_ be."


	43. Confrontations

Dawn came and Fergus had found no peace in the minutes and hours that slid past, every one bringing him closer to that which he knew he must do.

He took his rounds of the castle earlier than normal, his seneschal Gerald, following close behind him.

"Have you received any missives from Gosport, Gerald?" They were seated in the main hall, the castle having yielded no surprises or new information.

_What did you expect, Fergus? For the Maker to have written "She's guilty!" across the sky in crows?_

Gerald shook his head slowly. Gerald was a ponderous man, short and portly, and he did everything slowly unless Fergus was threatening to stride ahead or run off without him. There was nothing particularly outstanding about him; he was dependable and a good listener. Fergus was so fully committed to his position, and allowed himself so few distractions these days, that the position as his seneschal was more a title than an actual _job_.

"I didn't know you were...expecting to hear from Bann Fallon, my lord...," he shifted in his high back chair, his hugely round yet surprisingly firm stomach made it difficult for him to sit comfortably, knees always parted to accommodate his gut. "Afam tells me that he's been so busy making Lady Isobel at home, he's hard-pressed to even make it to the port as often as he should."

Fergus found his feet and began his vigil of staring at the heavy double doors that anchored the far end of the hall, every inch of him vibrating with expectation. It was a horrible thing to be waiting for- proof that his pregnant wife and mother of his beloved daughter, was a pretender. If Bann Fallon and Lady Isobel came through that door it would mean the past four years of his life had been a fraud, that he'd been living all this time as the unwitting fool.

He put his hands behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, and stood as he'd seen his father stand countless times. Chin down, eyes intense.

_Brand_ had inherited Bryce Cousland's ability to flicker between intimidating and charming with minimal effort, although she usually chose to downplay the intimidation in favor of a casual_ Hey, I _understand_, but there are some things that we need to work out here, ok? _approach.

_Fergus_ was affable. Even in the months after his return to Highever, he'd been called that, sometimes with a _surprisingly_ in front of it and sometimes with a raised eyebrow that merely implied the _surprisingly_. He knew what these comments _meant_. He'd lost so much and yet, besides being a bit muted, remained otherwise unchanged. He'd lost no faith in humanity nor had he'd lost the entirety of his will to live and to do right by the men, women and children who depended on his judgment for their safety, their livelihoods, and their justice.

And that _would_ remain, even when the front doors of the Keep swung open and Bann Fallon was escorted in, Lady Isobel on his arm and looking as fresh as a post-rain flower.

"You travel well, my lady," Fergus allowed his voice to boom over the hall, although he made no move towards his newly arrived guests. He glanced to the side doors, where he'd placed three guards within and without, and tilted his chin up to indicate that they should be at their ready.

_Just in case_, although he doubted that kind Fallon would provide much of a challenge. Isobel, however, was already struggling with this most unusual welcome.

"Teyrna Melisande was expecting us, my lord," her wide blue eyes took in the excessive guard flanking Fergus. "Did she...did it somehow slip her mind?

"Pregnancy will do that," Fallon nodded, oblivious to his betrothed's discomfort. "My mother forgot my sister in the yard once. Wasn't used to having a little one around and she had to relieve herself and just...wandered right back to the castle without Ro. The porter found her five hours later, playing in the dirt were Mother had left her, just happy as can be. Pregnancy. It will just _do_ that."

Isobel lowered her head, her fists balling at her sides.

"No, she didn't forget, my lady," Fergus shifted his shoulders back. "Not that you were arriving. She somehow failed to inform me, but I have my own _agents_."

"Your own _what_?" Isobel looked up sharply, her the surprising harshness of her voice echoing uncomfortably throughout the room.

"_Agents_, dear," Fallon bounced on the balls of his feet. "Very exciting, I'd think. Of course banns don't get them. Only arls and teyrns. And _queens_. I don't know what I'd do with one if I had it, but it would be _awesome_."

"_Darling_, "Isobel turned to her betrothed, her smile tight as a drum, and placed one hand on his chest. "I _know_ what he said. Perhaps you should return to the carriage and make certain that the stewards don't accidentally mishandle your collection of griffons."

"Oh!" Fallon nodded. "Excuse me, Fergus. I heard that there might be Grey Wardens here and I thought _I bet they'd appreciate some griffons!_ Last time I saw Brand at the Amell's, I invited her up to the castle for a viewing but she was never able to come. Leaving isn't rude, is it?"

Fergus shook his head and was genuinely relieved with the young man disappeared through the main door, leaving Isobel alone and scowling, no longer even _attempting_ to play the role of docile noblewoman.

"What do you want to know?" She approached Fergus like a predatory cat, eyes gleaming with ill-intent. "I'll give you information for my safety."

"I don't need information," Fergus gazed down at her, his expression as hard as he could make it. "I just needed you to show up, and confirm something for me. Which you have. "

Her head fell to the side and she regarded him with complete disinterest.

"I see nothing being _confirmed_, my lord," it was mockery. "I see a man looking for someone to blame for his own foolishness."

The hall door swung open once again and this time it was Ser Taylor sweeping down the length of the chamber, his chainmail clanking softly as he approached his teyrn, a diminutive leather case in hand and there was no disinterest in Isobel's face when she saw _that_ transferred into Fergus' possession.

"The teyrna was in the nursery, my lord. We found this package behind a false wall in her armoire," Taylor kept his attention fastened on Fergus as he withdrew a second parcel from his cloak. "These were in Brenna's room. While none of the documents are explicit, and all in partial code, there are clear indications towards yesterday's..._situation_ in both sets."

Fergus weighed the information like a physical thing in his hands before pointing his chin towards Isobel.

"She will need to be taken to a cell, Ser Taylor. Far away from our current prisoner, if you would," Fergus brushed past her, his feet taking him to make a second, similar, order. It would be different, though. This time it would be his _wife_.

He marched through the corridors of his castle with outward assurance, but inside there was a crumbling of the faint hope that one day he might have rebuilt the family he'd lost to Howe. _One day_. He and Melisande might have been happy with their children, _happy_ if he wasn't still in love with a woman almost seven years gone.

_Happy_ if the woman he'd married because he needed to marry _someone_ wasn't a fabrication.

Now there would never be a _one day_. He'd be raising his children on his own; not even Anora could see this level of situational fuckery and tell him that he needed to _try again_.

He'd have to decide what to do with Melisande after she gave birth. He'd have to eventually explain to his children what had became of their mother, knowing that leaving her absence shrouded in mystery would only invite them to go looking in dangerous places where they might find more than they needed to know.

_Priorities, Fergus. Those days are distant._ He steeled himself for what could be immediately forthcoming: the tears, the claims of innocence, the inevitable tirade of all the ways he'd opened himself up to this and all the ways he was a horrible person for being so _trusting_ and so unable to let go of the ones he'd lost.

Some of it would hurt, and many of the personal attacks would hit their target. He'd probably stay in his office again tonight, exhausted but unable to sleep and unwilling to go back to the chamber that had never felt like his. He'd probably try to work over what they needed to do next if they were going to get Brand where she needed to be _and_ put an end to this for good. He'd try to get something done and, in the process, give himself over to tears at the enormity of their task and all the that they could lose.

Everything. _Everyone_.

But first, the confrontation.

* * *

Brand's head ached, a side effect of being magicked to sleep when she'd attempted to rise at first light.

"It's what you get for ignoring my orders," Anders was sitting next to her on her bed, his hip pressed to hers and his arm tight around her waist. "If I say _You're not well enough to get up and, besides, I'd freeze without you_ and you ignore me, you're going to get put to sleep."

"That's an abuse of your power, I think," she had a cheek against his shoulder and was running her hand the length of his thigh, enjoying the feel of the muscle beneath his black robes. "I like these, by the way. You don't wear them enough."

"I was feeling a bit overstuffed and black is so slimming, you know."

She snorted in response; they'd both lost quite a bit of weight these past few weeks.

"We are going to have a feast at Eamon's estate when we get to Denerim. Just you, Bryce and me eating until we're sick. Nobody else is allowed," she smiled as his free hand caught hers in mid grope and their fingers entwined. "I wish I could see him."

"I can't imagine your brother will be much longer, then we'll be able to get on the road," his voice lowered. "Well, after we decide what to do about Alistair."

Brand closed her eyes. _Alistair_. She'd been trying not to think about Alistair, pulling as it did her heart and her mind in a hundred different directions when she needed them both to just relax for now.

Well, her brain needed to be kicking up some strategy. She'd not be fighting anytime soon if Anders had any say and, from the way he was holding her now, he intended on having as much say as he could before they were forced apart. If she wasn't fighting, that meant she would be taking a defensive position should they be attacked again. Two mages and two rogues were _good_, but she would feel better with someone stronger to handle more _direct_ confrontations.

The gap in their offense was shaped like _her_. But _Alistair_ could fill it.

She was about to voice her concerns to Anders when the door to her room swung open and Fergus entered.

"Fergus! Are you all right?" She leapt up to catch his face between her palms. "What _happened_?"

Fergus was ashen, dark circles highlighting the shock that was consuming his eyes.

"I think I just sentenced my wife to death," he swallowed hard and looked through her. "After she has the baby."

Brand fell back from him, horror wrenching her stomach. Her brother was a capable leader and swordsman, but he could barely stand _combat_. He agonized over every execution that got carried out within his teyrnir and fought to find alternative punishments for those he felt may be innocent but lacked any corroborating evidence to prove it.

Fergus would _never_ execute a _woman_. Let alone his _wife_.

"Have you gone mad? What the _fuck_ are you thinking?"

Fergus laughed at her language, learned at his bidding, and it was a hollow thing at best.

"Madness would be welcome after the day..._days_ that _I've_ been having," his hands pushed through his hair and he turned to Anders, who was on his feet but making no move to leave. "Would you mind if I spoke to Brand alone for a few minutes? The others are loading the carriage, and Bryce is in the nursery with Norah and Fiona."

Reluctance drawing the corner of his mouth back, Anders left without a word, leaving the Cousland siblings to stare at each other in uncomfortable silence for several long seconds before they both began speaking at the same time-

"I think Alistair should come with us-"

"Melisande is working for Ignacio-"

"What?" Brand put her hand up, her mind barely able to process what she'd just heard. "_Melisande_ is working for _Ignacio_? As an…assassin? I've _known_ assassins. She's not _interesting_ enough to be an assassin."

Fergus' shoulders fell slightly and his expression turned wounded, "I see death has only increased your irreverence, little sister. Now is hardly the time to be a smartass."

Biting the inside of her cheek, Brand nodded. He was right, on both counts. Since she'd awoken she was feeling strangely ebullient and on her, this usually came with an increase in things said that she probably shouldn't. Still, he was visibly less anguished than he'd been when he came in.

"I'm sorry," and she was. "Tell me what happened, Fergus. I'll mind my tongue."

"I told you the heart of it," these words came out roughly, all hard edges. Then he continued, his tone and appearance turning to regret. "She didn't say much. Ingacio brought her here to infiltrate our _family_. I married someone who lied to me with every breath she drew and was working to get the teyrnir under Ignacio's control. I never would have guessed or suspected had _Alistair_ not told me of her role in Bryce's kidnapping. I probably would have been poisoned in a few years and that would be it. My children, the _Couslands,_ would be puppets. And considering the way things are going now, it's very possible that Norah may be heir to more than just the teyrnir. They could have taken the _throne _through me, and I would have been ignorant until my end."

While the last of it was absolutely horrible to imagine, Brand was still stuck on the part _before _the probable poisoning.

"Her role in..._what_?" Her eyes narrowed as pricks of heat spread across her face and chest. "_In on Bryce's kidnapping?_ You mean she...she gave him up _willingly_, didn't she? She walked him down there and _handed him over_ and..."

_Alistair probably saved him. _

Her heart twisted painfully at the utter betrayal and it was in stark contrast to the bloom of relief that stretched up from her stomach. It had been an inside job of every sense of the word, one that would could have ended her life, Bryce's life and, eventually, Fergus' as well.

_But we survived._

"Anders said he didn't think Alistair betrayed us," she was distracted from her own words, blinking rapidly against tears that stung brightly but were not gathered enough to fall. "Do you agree, Fergus? Do you think he's innocent?"

"Yes."

He said it without hesitation and Brand was barely able to keep down a sob, her hands going to her mouth as she contemplated what _this_ meant.

_Everything. This meant _everything_. _

With a force of will almost beyond her, thoughts that had unspooled, that had been unspooling for days or maybe _years_, were tugged together in one clear line that led from this room to a man and then from _him_ to _Denerim_.

"To Denerim," she whispered this meditatively, her shoulders squaring as everything seemed suddenly so clear. Connor would have to wait to learn of his father's death. Traveling to the Tower would be too risky, too much time on the road and going in the opposite direction of where they _needed_ to be. The nobles would be filtering into Denerim for the Landsmeet, some of them already at their estates within the city. She'd have to make her rounds, to gather information and possibly make some deals that would gnaw at her conscience for a while.

It wasn't like she hadn't been through this _before_.

"I need to get ready, Fergus," she met his gaze. "Where is Alistair?"

"He remains imprisoned. I thought it should be your decision as to what becomes of him," Fergus looked ten years older than he had the last time she'd seen him, which was just yesterday morning. He looked older, and there was an _edge_ that he'd not had before. "I take it that you want him released?"

"No. I want to do it myself," Brand went to her trunk, already certain what she would be wearing when she walked out of here. "I'll be out in a few minutes."

Fergus left and she was alone.

_Alone_ and her thoughts turned to a morning six years ago. Well, it was _morning_ in only the most _technical_ sense of the word. Dawn was still over an hour away when she'd gathered up her discarded dressing gown from the floor of Teagan's bedroom in Redcliffe Castle, her bare feet silent on the wool runners in the corridors as she crept back to her own room.

Her own room, where the combined guilt for what she'd asked of Loghain and what she'd done to Teagan nearly crushed her beneath its palm. Her own room, where the last time she'd stayed she'd spent hours and hours and _hours_ manhandling and being manhandled by Alistair. It had been incredibly cathartic, the scope of their strength and their stamina almost beyond measure as they threw each other against walls and tables and pinned each other to the floor and the bed, nothing tender or beautiful about _any_ of it until they finally fell asleep in a cocoon of sheets and he'd awoken in the night to take her, whispered words of devotion underlining how much it didn't matter that they were strong and driven for each other, because strength didn't change who they were and _drive_ didn't really improve the odds against them.

So she'd been caught there half in memory, guilt-stricken, alone and getting crushed by an invisible hand that had nothing better to do than _squeeze_.

Then she remembered what she had to do next. A forced march Denerim, a forced march to defeat the Archdemon. The fate of Ferelden, of _Thedas_, was on _her_ and the night before it had been _unfair_ but that morning it felt _fitting_.

What did she have to live for anyway? What did she have to _fear_? The men she was going to be leading, possibly to their deaths, would be watching her every move, their own morale waxing and waning according to what they saw in _her_.

And it would seriously _not_ do for them to see her in her dressing gown, her upper arms bruised from her exertions with Teagan and her eyes haunted by the decisions she'd made.

So she had hung up her guilt and set aside her sorrow. She'd wrapped herself in black leather armor made especially for her by Wade, the plates fashioned from the bones of a dragon that she'd slain herself, and smoothed her hair back so not a strand could escape. She'd sheathed her swords, slid daggers into her boots and at the small of her back and carefully fastened the her cloak at her throat, the silver clasp a laurel leaf design modeled after the Cousland family crest.

And she'd led the _fuck_ out of those men, showing only strength and fleeting glimpses of compassion when her eyes settled on an especially young or frightened soldier and only to pull them out of worry and up to where _she_ was.

Somewhere beyond all _that_.

In her room in Highever, she looked in her trunk and saw a similar but slightly different set of armor. This had been made after she'd given birth, Wade deliriously happy to be crafting for a _mother_, his first ever, and the bones she'd be wearing during _this_ march to Denerim had once belonged to the Archdemon.

A little bit of overkill, but a solid symbolic gesture nonetheless.

Brand threw it on, her hands trembling from her weakened state but still able to go through motions that were as familiar as anything. She threw it on and thought of her brother, his life pulled out from under him and he forced to make the hardest decision a man like him could make. She thought of Bryce and Anders. Of _Connor_, and Norah, and Fergus' unborn child.

There was the very real chance that she'd be unable to do anything more than command for the next week or so until the Landsmeet, and if that was how it had to be, then she was going to _Command_. The stakes were perhaps not as grand as they'd been during the Blight, but they were _everything_ that mattered to her now.

_Everyone_ that mattered.

Her appearance did not go unnoticed by her companions who stood gathered in the guest foyer. She'd spent the past few years being an administrator more than she'd been a warrior. This past week, she'd been fighting _some_ but not really _commanding_.

"You look like you could kill us all in five seconds and not take a single hit," Anders was holding Bryce, who was distinctly amused by Anders' remark.

"I can save you," Bryce waved his hands in the air as if he were casting a spell. "Bryce to the rescue!"

"Be careful with that," she kissed his cheek and he leaned back into her, Anders' hand supporting the small of his back.

"I told you a story last night, momma," Bryce's voice was quiet. "You were sleeping."

"You can tell me again tonight, pup," she pushed him towards Anders, giving her son an affectionate squeeze before she pulled away. "I'll meet you all at the stables. Make sure they get everything from my room loaded. Nathaniel?"

"Commander?"

"Have Alistair's belongings been packed?"

"Yes, Commander," Nathaniel raised one eyebrow, usually a prelude to a question that she wouldn't like. This time he put it away without a word. Perhaps coming back from the dead had earned her some of his respect. "His pack has been taken with the rest."

"Thanks, Nathaniel."

She gestured for Fergus to follow her and they began their march to the dungeon elbow to elbow, Brand quietly briefing him on her plans to go directly to Denerim and do some reconnaissance before the Landsmeet.

"Fergus, I would like for you to send Afam to the Vigil with a message. I need Oghren to be at that Landsmeet, too. He should travel with at least four other men; I'd prefer no more than two Wardens. Have him meet us at the Gnawed Noble. I'll pay his bill," she frowned as they approached the prison door. "I'd like to do this alone, if you wouldn't mind."

Fergus held up a single iron key.

"I'll be at the stables when you're ready to leave," he looked suddenly lost and then caught her in an unexpected embrace. "Please be careful, Brand. Remember what I said?"

"_We walk out of this place together, or not at all_," she caught the sleeves of his tunic as they parted, and she was once again the one giving reassurance. "You're in luck, Fergus. I'm starting to think death doesn't _want _me. It would be insulting if it wasn't so _convenient_."

She left him smiling sadly, her quip reassuring up to a point.

The lower corridors to the prisons were not her favorite place to be. As a child given to exploration and mischief, even she'd avoided these dark, damp passages as they smelled of centuries' worth of brutal justice and lost souls. Her father had removed the monstrous and archaic torture devices, having known far too many friends and comrades who found painful death at the end of a whip or at the crank of a rack.

Even in the absence of those things, this was a Makerforsaken place at its core and her skin cringed away from the walls and she felt ill that Alistair had been down her for over a day.

_Alistair_

She remembered the last time she'd let him out of a cell, how things had been _different_. Her expectations had been that it would not be easy between them, but she'd had no idea how much everything was going to fall apart, herself included. She'd been confident that she could handle whatever he gave her, whatever he carried against her and whoever he'd become. And maybe she could have _before_ the world had turned upside down and she was going to keep trying.

But she wasn't going to do anything _alone_ anymore because _alone_ wasn't working. It had never worked, to be honest, and never really been the case. She'd just been more comfortable holding on to the guilt and pain that was generated from _all_ conflicts, even those that found her victorious. The others who fought beside her never bore as much of the burden because _they_ could let go while she was compelled to _cling _in order to punish herself for surviving, or for betraying, or for not loving the man she was supposed to love.

At some point yesterday she'd crossed a line within herself, a subconscious move from self-destruction to _blast it all, I've got enough trying to destroy me without doing it myself._

So she was going to let go. She was going to let go and see where _that_ led her.

She'd somehow ended up in front of Alistair's cell, his dark eyes soft in dim torchlight and this time she didn't avoid his gaze as she approached, and was glad to pull the door open for him.

"I'm sorry that you were down here for so long," her fingers twitched at her side.

"Fiona was here last night to let me out, but I thought it would be better if I stayed until…something had happened," his head was slowly tilting as he regarded her, and he seemed almost on the verge. "It wasn't so bad. I even got to take a _bath_ this morning."

He _was _clean, she'd noticed. Clean and dressed like Fergus.

"I was hoping you'd be the one to get me," he glanced down at his hands, which were nervously twisting against each other. She'd seen this before, of course, and it was a touch of old times. "No matter what was decided, I wanted to tell you."

"Tell me what?" One eyebrow went up in anticipation.

"That you were right about the golem doll," he smiled like the sun on the retreating edge of a thunderhead. "_Boom_."

"Golem doll made everything better?" She knew her face must be mirroring his own, and she could see it in his eyes that _this_ was something he'd needed as much as he'd needed reassurance and duty. And she'd needed it too, as she found herself wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her cheek against his chest, suddenly not in command of anything and _definitely_ not feeling much like letting go, especially when he returned her embrace, hesitant at first but then _resolute_.

In five minutes time, they'd be Commander and Warden, she marching out with him at her elbow the way it was _supposed_ to be.

But for that moment they were just two reuiniting, glad to be found after being lost to each other _and themselves _for far too long.


	44. Two Nights

**Note from Surely: **Yes, I'm going to pretend like it hasn't been four weeks since the last update. Instead, I'm going to credit Miri1984's _Shades of Grey _with inspiring me to keep with it even when my muse abandoned me and non-story obligations got in the way.

Also, sorry for the looooong gap between updates. I would do a "Previously, on _Undertow_..." montage type thing, but I think it would only be more confusing.

* * *

The day had started out better than _this_.

It had been Fiona visibly relieved to see Alistair at Brand's side, and Fergus looking determined to right the near-catastrophic wrongs caused by his wife. It had also been Anders and Alistair and Fiona bantering about the massive steed Alistair had been given for their ride to Denerim.

_Are you sure your brother doesn't have something larger? I can almost make out the ground from here._

_Afraid you can't handle it? We _could_ trade. I'm used to having something _large_-_

Anders_. Finish that sentence and I _will_ set you on fire._

_Fine, _fine_. Fiona hates when I talk about my- Youch! Was lightning _entirely_ necessary? You win, you killjoy. Maker, if I didn't know better I'd say you were _jealous_. _

It had been hopeful moments, because it seemed like they were becoming stupidly hopeful people.

_This_, however, is a nightmare she'd had before. Sweat is streaming into her eyes as her limbs quiver with exhaustion and _concern_ distracts her, concern over the sounds of violence involving the ones who matter most to her echoing in the distance.

The bow in her hand is not her own; it has the Howe family crest stamped on it, thus it is as far from her own as anything can be. But its owner is crumpled and bleeding at her feet and there are sounds in the woods around them; assassins on soft feet approach through the black and even the protest of her arm and the cold in her fingers and the concern is put aside for_ I will not let them take him. I will not let them take him while I can still draw breath._

_Breathe._

She'd died the day before, which was probably never going to not sound weird in her head, and it is a good excuse for her state of hyperawareness- every twig snap amplified, every subtle creak of leather armor like a rusty hinge on a door that shouldn't be opening and certainly not at _this_ hour.

_Deep breath. And hold..._

_thwang _

And then the sound of a body falling.

Her arm screams at her and she screams back, but silently. It helps with the pain and to obliterate the concern without distracting her from _listening_, listening to the forest around her, to a point almost a hundred yards behind her where she'd shoved her son and her lover towards cover that smelled like trees, despite protestations that _you just _died_ and you're _insane_ if you think that I'm..._

_Force field_, she'd reminded him with a kiss and he'd seemed no less convinced of her insanity but slightly more understanding of her _logic_. He'd wordlessly slid into shadows and, after the faint flare of a spell being cast, mage and child ceased to exist to anyone but her.

_Deep breath...hold..._

_thwang_

A strangled cry of pain sounds and she curses herself for not taking him down in one shot. She shouldn't worry; the next arrow is already nocked, so even as she looses a nearly silent _fuck_ the body hits the ground.

Brand guesses that there are at least three more coming for her here, two on her left and one _hopefully only one _on the right. Her back aches, but it won't be much longer. The Howe twitches to consciousness at her feet and she won't let that distract her because it _can't_ be much longer. There are others in the forest around her, her own men, and she needs to get Howe some healing. _If he can be healed_. His eyes flutter momentarily open before falling closed again, his face going almost impossibly slack.

She'd found him accidentally, following the sound of cries and the assassin who'd attacked him had been standing over his body. Now she was face down a few feet away, her body already searched for anything that might help with the gash in Nathaniel's side. Brand had managed to find a clean bandage to help staunch the flow of blood, but then the creeping footsteps in the forest had happened and she was back to a night a little over a year ago.

She'd not saved _anyone_ that night.

_Deep breath. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hoooooooo-_

_thwang_

"Maker."

_thud_

Not a soul.

_Deep breath. _

This breath is ragged, and the pain in her left arm is impossible to ignore and she's too tired to reign it in or use it. She's too tired for a _lot_ of things as the ground tilts beneath her and the world is upended for what seems like the millionth time.

Teagan had caught her crying.

And there was no way to make it look any better- her sitting on Anders' desk in Anders' abandoned bedroom, tears rolling down her cheek as she regarded the contents of a small box labeled Bryce _and you should be here to give this to him. You should _be_ here._

Anger had turned Teagan's mouth down at the edges and his eyes spoke of deep disappointment as he stared in admonishing silence. This wasn't an outright betrayal. With Anders gone, there was no longer any chance of _that_ happening. But maybe it was worse for him to see his emotionally distant wife crying over the absence of another man, and with the door open where anyone with feet to carry them by could see her.

It had been a hard thing to talk her way out of it, every word she spoke accidentally stressing Anders' importance and visibly digging at Teagan. Finally she'd shown him the wooden frog.

"It's for Bryce. Bryce misses him and I thought I could find something to give him...to fill the gap," her tone was carefully devoid of pleading, because _pleading_ would have made it seem like she'd actually been guilty of something. But she wasn't guilty of anything but missing a friend. A friend and a constant companion and _nothing_ more than that..._I bet it would have been incredible_. "Teagan, I promise you. It's just...you remember the state I was in with Zevran left? And when Leliana told me she was staying in Orzammar with Rin? I've never been very good at this. Being abandoned."

His expression had softened at _abandoned_, as she'd hoped it would. It was an overstatement, and a purposeful one. He'd benefited from those she cared about _abandoning_ her before, his proposal accepted in the aftermath of her friends and companions going their separate ways.

He'd also benefited that evening as she attempted to vent her deeply held frustration from her place astride him.

She'd only needed to buy a few days and then it was off to Redcliffe, Teagan and Brand traveling with Bryce and Nathaniel, the former reminding her of Anders' absence by talking about him almost non-stop, the latter reminding her by being his complete antithesis- all distance and cold stares.

She missed Anders more than she cared to admit, especially to herself. She missed him more than she'd missed another snarky blond who'd left her, although if missing Anders was hard to admit then the other was _impossible_.

She missed him so much that Teagan's attempts to bed her upon their arrival at Redcliffe had went declined, inane excuses falling from her lips as if she'd found a list of them pinned up somewhere and was just reading it aloud and not actually foolish enough to use them. _I'm tired. Sitting for days and days on end just isn't my thing. My hips are stiff and I feel a small pull in my back. And my hair…needs washing._

His eyes stayed on her as she left his chamber to go share Connor's old quarters with Bryce. _Bryce_ who was excited about a hunting trip in the morning and he talked about that, or what he understood of it, and not of Anders.

She'd fallen asleep disappointed and disconcertingly worried.

The arrow comes from nowhere and it is now. She staggers back and glares in consternation at the chink in her breastplate. _Note to self, ceremonial armor isn't for day-to-day wear and Wade is going to give me _such_ the stink-eye when he sees this._

It only hurt her armor, but it brings her back to focus. The Howe bow is a weapon again in her hands and not just an unbearable weight pulling her arm out of the socket.

_thwang_

This shot is not as precise as the others, more of a warning or a clear signal that she's far from finished.

_Deep breath. Hold..._

_thwang_

_thump_

_thwang_

"Ow-" _thump_

_Exhale._

The next arrow catches her off-guard again. It is from behind and she pitches forward from the force of it, stumbling to her knees and suddenly in an incredibly vulnerable posture. This is when her strength gives out completely. Gravity is too much or the air above her has become impossibly heavy, getting back on her feet seems like the most overwhelming task.

_Justice_. Her mind reaches out and her body braces for the sense of him. But there are no echoing second thoughts, or strange warmth of a spirit holding her from the inside. There is only exhaustion and footsteps coming.

And she is at her most vulnerable.

Teagan had planned a day meant for her. It was _all _for her, an attempt to salvage their vacation after the disaster that had been Bryce's first hunting trip with Teagan and Nate. Bryce had avoided his father's presence the entire evening after their return, the image of a dead fox following him well into the night when he'd finally settled against her stomach and asked in his small voice:

"Why would he _hurt_ it?"

She'd been unable to adequately explain, never having been fond of the idea of hunting for sport to begin with. Her father had taken her out once when King Maric was visiting Highever. He'd assumed that his daughter's interest in swordplay would translate into a love of...chasing animals?

It hadn't. She'd spent one long day bouncing in a saddle while the hounds led them through the forests in and around Highever. She'd spent the day silently rooting for the fox to escape. What had it done to earn their ire? Besides having been born a fox, of course.

It did not surprise her that Bryce seemed to feel the same way.

She'd gotten out of the question by promising her son that he wouldn't have to go hunting again unless he wanted to. Teagan had been disappointed when she told him the next day, but it was her day and he was determined to be the man he thought she wanted.

That was how they'd ended up in a clearing off of the marsh road, a late lunch picnic having turned from stilted conversation to naked as she'd noticed for the millionth time how handsome her husband was and things between them would be perfect if she could just merge physical attraction with respect and commit her heart the way her body could commit as it responded to his touch.

_Responded_ while still yearning for more, for which she'd pushed him as the sun set and they should have been back at the castle _hours _earlier, but Teagan was taking advantage of her attention and seemed to even be enjoying himself, misgivings about being so exposed, and during the day, had disappeared as soon as he saw her breasts bared in the leaf-filtered sunlight.

Dusk was well past when she'd been convinced that they were risking harm by remaining out. Laughing as she pulled on her tunic, she asked him if he thought she and her Wardens slept in impenetrable fortresses when they traveled.

_I am not a Warden, my dear. And _you _are__ just one._

_But you're a warrior, Teagan. And I'm just one and her _mabari_!_

Charon, having spent most of the afternoon out of sight and sleeping, regarded her with tired eyes. His muzzle had become more grey than brown, and even his hackles gleamed silver in the moonlight.

_He'll keep you safe. Won't you, Charon? Keep Teagan _safe_._

_Safe_ was a word the dog knew well. It was his command to protect a target with his life. If he had his say, he'd only ever keep her or Bryce _safe_, but over the years he'd been called upon to watch over numerous companions, Wardens, refugees, and even a queen. His nub tail began to waggle back and forth and his eyes narrowed in excitement. He'd barely managed to stay with them on their ride away from Redcliffe, but...safe. Yes, _safe_ was something he could handle.

"Look at her on her hands and knees, like the bitch she is."

The kick to her ribs is painful, but it at least breaks her reveries and ends the deadlock between gravity and the weight of the air bearing down on her as she topples over and onto her back.

The assassin _assassins_ stare down at her. She cannot make out features, just eyes gleaming in scarce moonlight and the curves of three satisfied grins. They are here to usher her to her death, and it seems crazy that death might actually happen, on the heels of hopeful reconciliation _and I _just_ died_.

Beside her, the Howe stirs and steals the attention of the trio smirking above her. It's a tiny distraction, but she's used far less to gain far more and her foot is in the air and striking just inside the knee of the assassin closest to her, success measured in the satisfying pop of bone being knocked just enough out of socket to collapse a target.

One assassin falls against another and the third throws himself on top of her, his hands pinning her wrists to the ground above her head and his breath surprisingly _fresh_ against her nose.

She presses her body up in invitation, a smile curving her lips.

"Pretending you want this won't make me stop," his voice is smooth, his speech unaccented. "It will only make me want to hurt you more."

His fingers tighten so that gauntlets dig painfully into her flesh, but she allows her mouth to brush his with gentle resolution. When she pulls away, his expression is unreadable in the dark, but his fingers loosen and he begins to breathe heavily.

Only inches away, Nathaniel twitches again and one of the others assassins kicks him hard in the ribs. This is worse than kissing the man on top of her, because Nathaniel is one of hers and was here to scout and _not_ to be killed or kicked in such a defenseless state.

But she can't react, not _outwardly_. Instead, she holds it inside and lets it create a tension in her, a spring of anger that is building up power the longer she keeps it pressed down and the man above her, satisfied that his friends have Nathaniel taken care of, returns his attention to her and this time the kiss is all on him and she comes very close to claiming his intruding tongue, which is strangely cold, as her own. Instead, she loses herself and Teagan is kissing her one last time.

It was wrong. Her back was pressed against Kadan and her husband's fingers were in her hair and she felt him all over her, because they'd been all over each other not too long ago, but it felt no more right that it had that morning. Or weeks ago. Or _years_ ago, when she'd chosen to fuck him before he left her life for what was supposed to be for good.

She shouldn't have done that. More than anything, including sparing Loghain when Alistair was ready to quit her the moment she did, she should have just let Teagan go. Bryce was a blessing, to be certain, but neither she nor her husband were ever going to be happy with the other and the way that final embrace had felt like a hundred before that she'd shared with other men and women, and after an afternoon of his best efforts, just drove that reality home.

Their whole marriage was wrong and they were always going to just live with it and _try_, but it was never going to get past the point of _it could always be _worse_._

Some people could find peace in such a situation. Some people could live with respect and the occasional afternoon spent enjoying each other's company. She needed more. She was beginning to suspect, from the way that frustration pulled at the skin between his eyes, that he did, too.

_Copper for your thoughts?_

_My thoughts are worth a halfpenny at best, Teagan. We should get going back. I imagine Bryce is awaiting our arrival quite eagerly. _

_Maybe _your _arrival._

And in his voice had echoed regret and for the first time she saw the true toll that her distance had taken on him. For three years he had been proud to be her husband, to be her son's father. He'd been _proud _despite the murmurings that her heart had left with Maric's bastard and that her body belonged to the mage who was always at her side. He was proud despite the fact that Bryce was more her son than his. He was proud because he still saw her as the woman who helped him save Redcliffe and Eamon when nobody else could. She was, after all, the _hero_. He was lucky to have married the hero and, if he was _very _lucky, his son would live up to the Guerrin name even if there was nothing terribly Guerriny about him.

"I hope you plan on leaving some for the rest of us."

The assassin who kicked Nathaniel has a raspy voice and the sound of it causes the man on top of her to growl, the vibration in his chest and throat immediate even as he pulls away and allows her to catch her breath. He turns his head slightly so he can say something about this being a once in a lifetime opportunity and she wriggles beneath him, rubbing as suggestively as she can in armor on armor, but really she's working up leverage so that when he's completely in profile she can launch her forehead at his temple, the impact turning her vision dark orange and hot but it's worth it for the crunch and the way he goes limp on top of her, unable to further molest her teeth and incapable of keeping her hands from finding the daggers sheathed at his hips.

The others do not see her hide the weapons discreetly along the inside of her wrists, but they know their friend is worthless. The one she kicked in the knee presses his boot against her cheek, the smell of earth and leather more unpleasant than then rough sole scratching at her skin, while the other rolls her would-be suitor away, leaving her exposed again.

Blood rushes to extremities that she did not realize had been doing without, and it is painful but affirming in its way. She'd felt nothing the last time she'd died. That she felt _everything_ now was a good sign.

That is until a boot swings hard against her side and it is her own ribs cracking on impact and the only good thing about _that_ is that she catches the leg before it can be pulled away, one stolen dagger finding a soft expanse of calf and slicing neatly across. Blood spills down her fingers as she withdraws her hand, but she is focused more on where her target falls, clutching his leg and screaming beside her. The foot on her face retreats momentarily only to return with another sharp blow to her _other_ side and this time it's just _bad_ and the scream that tears its way out of her throat echoes off the trees around her.

Teagan hated her scream, her war cry, and he glared back at her when she let it rip. There were several bandits coming from behind them, the road blocked by a burning wagon less than a quarter mile ahead and the forest on either side of the road dark and unfamiliar. The scream was a warning, like Charon's low growl as an elf attempted to flank on Teagan's left and met with the mabari's teeth clamp firmly around one leather-clad thigh.

Brand had managed to dismount and summon Justice before the first attack on her person came.

Justice was a soothing presence, familiar now and no longer unsettling. His being there heightened her senses, quickened already impressive reflexes, and gave her strikes more power. Alone, she could take on almost any other warrior or soldier in Thedas and come away victorious and unscathed. With him helping her, she could take on five of the best at one time and not even break a sweat.

The bandits had been far from the best, and she tore through them with her enchanted daggers, struck at them with carefully placed elbows and even managed to punch one man square in the nose, which was not her favorite thing to do. Of all the various damage she could inflict upon others, that she inflicted upon others _all the time_, breaking someone's nose was something that made her uncomfortable, like she was a thug and not a warrior.

_He was dangerously close to your throat, Commander._

Justice's baleful voice reminded her of the stakes. And he was right; that bandit wanted to kill her. They _all_ did.

She allowed her mind to go blank as she went to a place of _they came for death and they'll get it_. Nothing she did to them would keep her up at night, no amount of blood splatter or anguished cries or visceral sounds would make her waver or feel pity. They would join the nameless hundreds she'd slain before and she'd eventually find herself sitting on the edge of her bed and dressing her wounds, thinking not about how one bandit had died with a silent scream while another had flailed on the edge of madness from the pain, but about how long it had taken to kill how many men and was that better or worse than before? Should she be spending less time playing administrator and more time training or on the road? Had becoming a mother made her less efficient?

_You move just as quickly, Commander._ She spun around and one dagger caught the low part of a bandits throat, the momentum of the blow wheeling him away from her so that she would not be sprayed with crimson. _And you still have a knack for landing critical strikes._

Ducking, she avoided an arrow that had caught moonlight as it whizzed towards her head and she realized that only archers remained, even the road ahead where Charon and Teagan had been holding their own had fallen silent.

She dropped low to the ground, and moved towards one of the fallen corpses. The stench of blood and loosed bowels was no deterrent as she relieved one man of his crossbow and then paused to assess her surroundings.

The forest breathed around her and this exhalation was punctuated by the snapping of twigs that came from the same place as that last arrow. Loading the weapon slowly, careful to not tip off her would be killer, she kept her eyes trained for a second assault while her ears, aided by Justice, went over the texture of the sounds around her. Leaves rustling against leaves, wolves crying in the distance, the crackle of flames consuming a wooden wagon. Then there was a faint pop and she pulled the trigger reflexively, the clicking mechanism of the crossbow more satisfying than the soft strum of a bowstring but dangerous with her out in the open.

Fortunately, her aim was good the first time and perfect the second, her unseen attacker dying in anonymity on the road to Redcliffe. _Fitting, I think. This is the last place I'd want to meet my end. _

_I thought that the Deep Roads were the last place that you'd want to meet your end..._

_Point to Justice. _

Now she's thinking that this forest along the northern coast of Ferelden is the last place she'd want to meet her end.

Her ribs ache, she imagines there at least two cracked on each side.

"Get up, bitch," the last assassin standing is goading her on with his hands, as if this is a bar brawl and not life or death. "There's no fun in killing someone who isn't even fighting back. I want a story to tell."

She does as he demands, not because he demands it but because he's underestimating her. Or he's underestimating her _potential_. Two weeks ago, four broken ribs and swimming vision wouldn't have slowed her down at all. She'd killed the archdemon with a broken back, for fuck's sake.

But it's not two weeks ago. It's _now_. It's tonight and it's a night one year ago, and as she staggers to her feet, the ground seeming to pitch and heave beneath her. She is overcome with exhaustion from the effort and euphoria from victory. The two feelings are confused inside of her and she's having a difficult time going on from there as a large fist crashes into her jaw and concern licks at her stomach as she realizes Charon has yet to return to her.

He'd always returned to her before.

The blow to her face sends her reeling back a few yards, her feet tangling in the unconscious assassin and she sees that the one she wounded is searching Nathaniel's motionless form for weapons and coin.

She finds her balance and laughs. Looting is _her _thing, and to see it being done by someone else is so...on the nose.

_Have you ever noticed that the commander is only ever in a hurry when there's not corpses to raid? Then she's got all the time in the world._

_I can hear you, you know._

_It would be pointless for me to say it if you couldn't._

The assassin charges at her again, even limping he manages a solid hit square in the abdomen. It forces the air in her lungs out in an audible huff and she's on her knees, her fingers curled into Charon's bristly fur.

It had been warm with blood, sticky and black and all she could think of was _no_. _Not Charon_. She'd promised him a peaceful death with a belly full of rabbit and a spot by the fire. _You've done so much, and been such a good boy. My protector, keeping the ones I care about safe._

Tears for him had come in a hot rush, and Justice had done the equivalent of a mental throat clearing, clearly uncomfortable with the fact that she'd noticed her husband dead beyond her mabari and was in some state of denial, choosing to linger over the dog.

She continues laughing as she struggles to her feet, agony radiating away from her midsection and down her neck, her stomach twisted with nausea.

This is too much for the assassin, and he lets out a feral growl and pulls out a dagger. It's gold, the blades dangerously curved, and she's seen one like it before.

The implication is sobering. "Wait. Are you a _Crow_?"

He lunges, the blade flashing in moonlight and he's smiling because he has information she wants and he thinks he's won. And he _would_ have, but she's suddenly so over _all_of this and he's going to bear the brunt of her newfound annoyance.

Brand dodges the dagger and, as he stumbles past, she darts her hand out to catch his cheek with a hidden blade. It tears easily through flesh and the scent of blood takes her back once more, only this time she is numb to all pain and her head is bowed over Teagan's.

She did not sob for her dead husband, not the way she carried on over Charon. This felt different. She never would have expected it before it happened, but there was an air of inevitability to the sight of her hands stroking his lifeless cheeks, his lips parted and his eyes glassy in moonlight. This was _supposed_ to happen and only regret lapped at the edges of her consciousness, regret and rivulets of guilt as she automatically went to trace a mental line directly from something _she _had done to _him_, dead.

It was a distressingly easy thing to do, and not just one line but _tens_ of them. Some went through Anders, others through Anders' predecessor. Most, however, were linked to her own selfishness.

She'd ruined his life to make hers easier. And then...dead on the road to Redcliffe.

Nathaniel is moving again, coughing weakly, and she crawls to be beside him, her hand going to the worst of his wounds. The compress there is soaked crimson and this fills her with frustration. She is _worthless_ without a healer.

"Are they dead?" This barely makes it past his lips, less spoken than exhaled.

"No," the assassins twitched around her, half unconscious or debilitated. "I was hoping that we could question them."

Her own voice is colder than she expected steel when usually she would offer something soft. Nathaniel was one of her men, one of the first, and she fought here for _him_.

_You fought here to make up for someone you lost before. If it was Anders' death you were reliving, those assassins would be flayed._

This thought comes unbidden and it chokes her a little.

"I did kill the one who attacked you, though. It was one on one; I could handle that."

Nathaniel's stomach jerks in what she realizes is laughter.

"Since when are you aware of what you can _handle_?"

For a moment she stares at him, his pale skin in stark relief to the dark ground beneath them, and she tries to capture a feeling from after Teagan's death, when Nathaniel asked why…

_Why would you stay out so late? What sense is there in that?_

_I thought we would be fine…I thought I could handle anything that-_

_You thought you could _handle_. Why am I not surprised that it comes down to you and your bravado? _

And she'd taken it. She'd taken it then and a few months later when Anders had returned and that was _too much_ and he outright _said_that she should have died and not Teagan. Because Teagan would have been smarter than to have stayed out after dark, guarded only by a _woman_ and a _dog_.

"He lost track of time just as much as I did. I didn't _invite _the bandits to come after us or anything. It was nobody's fault but theirs."

She can't believe that she says it. She can't believe she _believes_ it. _It's time to let go of that, too._

"Of course…I _know _that it wasn't anything you did."

He seems to mean it and it settles something inside her. She still hurts, though, spasms in her side making it difficult to do anything that isn't falling to the ground to find a position that is slightly less _ow, ow, ow, ow_ than the one she's in.

That's when she hears voices, one male and one female, and they're coming from behind. Knowing that her chances of getting to her feet before they can skewer her are slim, she collapses forward against Nathaniel, playing dead until she hears a familiar gasp and a-

"Brand!"

It's Alistair and he's right there beside her, handling her as if she's made from glass _or he is_. He helps her to her feet and Fiona scowls at her, her face mostly shadowed under a plain hood.

"Something tells me you shouldn't be doing that," there is concern somewhere distant in her voice, almost lost amongst the admonishment of both of them. "I have enough mana left to heal one of you..."

Brand gives an immediate nod towards Nathaniel and sags against Alistair, glad to have his sturdy frame there to keep her from pitching forward again yet slightly disturbed at how easy it was to use him as support.

She ignores the way his arm goes automatically around her shoulders and then falls away, each action quick as thought. She doesn't have to look to know that his face would be pink in the moonlight.

"What are we doing with _those_ guys?" The assassins are a few feet away from where Fiona works on Nathaniel. They look up, appearing like wounded puppies for a few seconds. "You don't think they'll talk, do you?"

Brand regards them thoughtfully.

"Nathaniel?"

Nathaniel, his wounds dressed and partially healed, struggles to a sitting position so that he can assess the situation. Brand can see from his posture that he is not inclined to mercy. She palms her stolen daggers. Despite what she said to him a few minutes ago, she isn't inclined to mercy, either.

"There might be more in the forest, or waiting up the road. They might be counting on reinforcements, which is why they haven't ran. If we keep them alive and we get ambushed again…"

"Say no more," Brand stands on her own and before anyone can blink, the daggers she'd taken off the friendliest of the assassins, a memory of his tongue pressed against hers turning her stomach, are protruding from the skulls of his two comrades. "Alistair, if you could handle that one?"

Alistair nods grimly and steps forward, Starfang humming through the air as it arcs towards the final attacker, who realizes what's coming in the final seconds of his life.

His face twists in panic, a flash of emotion before Alistair's blade splits head from body. Brand darts her eyes away, the sound of one last corpse hitting the ground confirmation that it's done.

"Where are the others?" She keeps her voice neutral, but the question is really _where are Bryce and Anders?_ "Is everyone safe?"

Fiona knows. "Anders and Bryce are still under cover where you left them. Sigrun is with Highever's men and Bann Fallon at the carriage. I think you and Nathaniel got the worst of it. I don't know how we're going to get you down there with just the two of us."

"I can manage," Nathaniel struggles to his feet and moves slowly to reclaim the possessions taken from him during Brand's skirmish.

"Are _you _all right to walk?" Alistair regards her with gentleness, surprising considering she just ordered him to kill an unarmed man and there is blood still dripping down Starfang's blade.

"_Really_, Alistair?" Fiona scoffs at her son, and it is a motherly scoff indeed. "Let me guess…Brand thinks she's fine to walk."

"Right, right. I _should_ know better," Alistair smiles, a bit sheepish, and Brand wonders if there's not more to this exchange than there appears to be. "I don't suppose you'll let me carry you?"

"_Carry_ me?" Brand laughs, and the jerking of her abdomen causes the muscles in her sides to protest with hard spasms that seems like they're never going to stop roiling from her waist to her armpits. The pain is incredible and she can't hide it. Not from Alistair and Fiona. Alistair does a thing with his arms, obviously wanting to help but uncertain what on her can be safely touched and what will break upon handling.

Wordlessly, they decide that on his back is the best way for her to travel, since it means that he won't be pressing on her ribs. It's a strange position to be in, and she has a split memory of one night in Redcliffe Castle, enjoying the free time between impossible tasks and another in Amaranthine, Anders surprisingly strong beneath her as the sounds of Satinalia fade behind them.

"Anders is going to be so pissed at me," she rests her cheek against Alistair's back, the splintmail rough but cool against her cheek.

"He has the right to be, you _died_ yesterday," his fingers squeeze at her thighs and he sounds slightly hurt by this, but she's grateful that he knew what she meant_. Not that Anders is going be _thrilled_ with our current configuration._ "You were supposed to stay in cover and leave the fighting to those of us who _haven't_ died recently."

"You'll be lucky if he doesn't make you sleep the rest of the way to Denerim," Fiona is keeping close to Nathaniel, her hand out for support if he needs it. "It might be for the best, after all. You don't look so good."

She doesn't feel so good, and she lasts only long enough to reunite with Bryce and Anders, their relieved embraces warm but painful. Anders heals her as he hugs, but even he can't undo it all.

"Fiona suggested you put me down…like a dog," it sounds worse than it is; this is Ferelden and dogs are shown respect. Still, the elf makes a defensive noise.

"What are your orders, Commander?" He's glowing gold in the light of his own rejeuvenating spell. "Knock you out when we get to the carriage?"

"Knock me out and don't wake me until we get to Denerim," she leans in close so that her son wouldn't be able to hear the last order. "Straight to Denerim, trust no one, including those we've trusted before, and kill _anyone_ who gets in our way."

_Kill anyone _because anyone coming after them now would be coming for death, and they were going to get it.


	45. Transient

After living in Antiva City, Denerim had been reduced in Alistair's mind over the years. In his memory the dirty, narrow streets of the Fereldan capitol were barely the size of footpaths and the marketplace held only a few stalls. Even its citizens seemed to matter less in retrospect, the elven beggers outside of the alienage could not be as pitiful as the elven beggers in Antiva City. Did the Denerim beggers offer their children to the Crows for a few silvers each?

No.

They offered their children as _whores_.

Skin crawling, he stopped to stare at the man who had called out to him as he passed, repulsion also turning his stomach and crowding out the small snap of relief that Fiona was out of earshot, distracted along with Brand, Bryce and Anders by a merchant selling poultices and supplies. They'd only been ambushed the one time, but Nathaniel and Brand had required even more healing than they'd anticipated and the stocks were running dangerously low.

Alistair shook his head and regarded the elf. He was young, barely this side of twenty, and he had the shadowed, bloodshot eyes of a man who required more than food and water to get through a day.

"_What_ did you say?"

The elf thought he was interested, and he jerked his thumb back towards the gates that led to the Alienage.

"I got a little girl...for 50 coppers, she's yours for the afternoon," he frowned when Alistair balked. "I, uh, also have a boy. If that's your...thing. Didn't peg you as Orlesian, but I'm not one to judge a man his appetites." His hands spread and Alistair could see his nails were caked with filth and blood, and dirt was worked into the creases of his fingers. The sight of these things closed Alistair's throat painfully. He'd forgotten about _this_ side of life. Even when his work had taken him to the darkest places of humanity, when he was in his _own_ dark place, he skirted the edges of true poverty. The poor in their slums and their hovels didn't get assassinated because the poor could be killed five feet away from their homes, in broad daylight, and nobody would bat an eye.

"You would sell your child's...for a silver?"

"Hey," the elf balled his hands into fists and tucked them under his forearms and assumed an indignant posture. "That silver will feed all of us for a month."

"Feed you or keep you swimming in whiskey?" Alistair realized the irony of him saying this to anyone, but he'd never destroy another person _his own child_ for _alcohol_. "Why don't you-"

"Alistair," Brand's voice was calm but firm behind him. "It's not worth it."

The weary _trust me, I've tried_ was unspoken but very much implied.

"He's prostituting his _children_," it came out strangled and when he turned to face her, her expression was sympathetic and...proud?

"No, he's not. He's hoping to lure you back towards the alienage, get you in a dark alley where a couple of his friends are waiting to jump you for everything you own." She scowled down at the elf before continuing. "He thought you were alone. When you turn him down..._if_ you turn him down, the next move is to get you so angry that you white knight your way back there, to save the child or attempt to, at least."

"Do the guards know?" Alistair was uncertain how she could be so sure.

"Yep," Brand rubbed the back of her neck, her forehead furrowing thoughtfully. "They let it happen because so few of the men who respond to the offer are doing so for the right reasons. But, if it makes you feel better, I'll have Soris look into this one."

Alistair tilted his head and there was an almost audible snap of his memory. He was seeing a small apartment, dingy but well-kept, and a blue-eyed elf standing next to the fire. His hair had been an almost impossibly dark shade of red and he was cagily grateful.

"Soris...was he the elf you freed when you saved Anora from Howe?"

"Don't you mean the _dreamy_ elf?" Anders came from nowhere, impressive considering he had a Pounce-slinged Bryce in tow.

Brand blushed, and it might have made Alistair laugh if he wasn't feeling askew, and all of a sudden. There was something unsettling about where they were, and what they were talking about, and for the past couple of days he'd kept himself entirely in the now, but the division between now and _not_ now was blurred.

"I don't think he's dreamy. I just appreciate what he's done," Brand's assertion broke through the fog and Alistair refocused his attention on her. "If that makes someone dreamy, then no doubt I think Shianni is, too."

"No doubt," Anders chuckled warmly and nudged her arm. "I wouldn't _dream_ of implying that you'd discriminate against her."

This was less than thrilling, too, especially the way Brand leaned closer to the mage and _aren't you supposed to be over all of this?_ Alistair's brow furrowed in further confusion when Brand caught his elbow, guiding him back towards Fiona and explaining:

"Do you remember Amethyne? Her mother was killed by Howe's men at Highever?"

_There's Brand sitting in the alienage mud, playing a one-sided game of dress-up with an orphaned elven girl. I can still picture her wistful smile as the child beamed out from under her new tiara- too large and sitting crooked on her golden head- and the way she had collected the child's belongings and escorted her to an tenement door with the promise of a swift return._

"You went back?" He'd not been there for that.

He had thought that he'd _be_ there for that.

They'd be ex-lovers by then, he engaged or married to Anora. A king with a queen who was not his lanky, scarred battlemaiden. He'd not told Brand, but he had intended to accompany her and offer the orphaned elf the world, as proof that his heart would never change no matter who called him husband. "I was going to give her a place in the castle, if she...whatever the two of you wanted for her, I was going to provide."

Brand's hand fell away and her gaze turned straight ahead. The corner of her mouth tugged back, thoughtful, but her expression was otherwise inscrutable.

"Her mother wanted her to be raised as an elf, surrounded by elven culture and history. Soris and Shianni were more than happy to take her in, and I have arranged for their education," she smiled ruefully. "Plus, it's better to keep her...away. She's happy in the alienage. And safer."

"Which is sad," Fiona wore a scowl, even as her dark eyes gleamed with sympathy for the elven beggars. She knew, Alistair realized. She knew something terrible _and terribly intimate_ and he'd never thought about what her life had been like, as an elf and a mage. But, in the flash of conflicting emotions on her face, he saw more than frustration and pity.

And he understood.

He was understanding more, had come to realize more, as they would their way through this whole mess. Fiona was not a talkative person and when she did speak, her words and manner were spiky and defensive. Even with those she knew well and seemed to trust, there was an air of _careful, now_ about her that seemed impenetrable. If he thought back far enough, as if within the last few weeks was far, he could remember her brief interactions with Varel; that they were lovers had become clear enough, but she did not yield in his presence, not in the same the way that Brand and Anders yielded to each other. There was closeness, but not _intimacy_.

_Would she have been a caring mother?_ He'd allowed himself a few thoughts in that direction as the days were long and even Sigrun had run out of things to talk about halfway through their journey to Denerim. Besides, he saw her all the time now; it was inevitable that they'd creep in. As strange as he felt towards Fiona, as angry and bitter and _betrayed_ as he was at the worst of times, it was only natural to wonder..._wasn't it_? Would she have punished him the way Eamon had, with Disappointment, or would she have joined him the dirt, pressing designs in the dirt with a signet ring that was virtually indestructible, anyway.

"Alistair?" Brand's eyebrow was almost at her hairline, her eyes concerned. "This...this isn't too much, is it? I just realized that you haven't been to Denerim since...and we're heading towards Eamon's estate and, surprise, surprise, I really didn't think this out. I am so sorry."

Blood burned his cheeks, and he automatically cut his gaze away from Brand and her mages. Only Bryce was in his eyeline, his expression one of typical bemusement, non-judgemental and guileless. Bryce was a child adored, even by those who could claim no blood ties to him. Alistair regarded him for a long moment, this reality sinking in slowly. Alistair had been handed off by his own parents to be raised by a man who had no emotional stakes in his upbringing, who did everything he could to keep Alistair at a safe distance from anyone who might coddle him or give him more than Eamon wanted him to have.

Bryce, though, had his mother. She bent the rules to allow him in her life, she surrounded him with people who _would_ coddle and teach him, she loved him obviously and unconditionally and he _glowed_ with it.

_Everything would have been so different had_...and _that_ thought was the dangerous one. Two weeks ago he would have let it drive itself in and fester. This afternoon, though, he was feeling a little bit stronger. It died before anyone could be blamed for _anything_ and he allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch in embarrassment.

"Has Denerim always been this..."

"Dirty?" Fiona was holding her robes up from the straw strewn path that wound through the marketplace.

"No," Alistair regarded his own dusty armor. "Although, it _is_ rather _fragrant_. I was thinking haphazard. It's like everything was placed and built on a whim and with no thought towards coherency or convenience."

"Welcome to the reconstruction!" Brand spread her arms out towards the heart of the market, a widening of the narrow path they were on that was only remarkable because of the wooden pillars marking the edges and the brightly colored canvas awning that would block vendors and their customers from mid-day sun on rare clear days and the interminable Ferelden rain the rest of the year.

At the edges of the open market proper were buildings, of course. Many were made from the same stone as the city walls, but most were wooden constructs that jutted gracelessly from the ground to expand at their upper levels. Several loomed dangerously far over the road, so much so that Alistair almost expected to have an unwitting inhabitant fall on top of him.

"Seriously, it was _not_ like this when I- the last time I was here," Alistair screwed up his face. "Or am I crazy? Wait, just answer the first question."

Anders' mouth closed with an audible clicking of his teeth.

"You're right, it wasn't," Brand adjusted the silver clasp that pinned her cloak at her shoulder. It was a dragon, wings spread and jaws yawning forth flames that were actually orange as it caught the sunlight that filtered between dwellings. "The market was hit hard when the darkspawn attacked. I think we killed twenty ogres alone, and by the time we got here fire had destroyed most of the homes. Even the Chantry was almost ruins. When the ash had settled, ash was practically all that was left.

"Because it was important, Anora diverted much of the early reconstruction funds towards this district, but _more_ was needed," Brand's expression darkened as she got down to the crux of the matter. Gold. _Of course_. "Property taxes were jacked up to such a degree that it became common for the owner of one lot to make an agreement with the owner of an adjacent lot- they'd keep the footprint of their homes small and at the edges of the property, and the unused land between them could be rented or sold to a third man. That means that there's three, and sometimes four or five, homes where there should only be two _and_ they were built to maximize the amount of excess land."

"But the sky is free," Anders pointed up to offer a visual for this bit of wisdom. "So itty, bitty cramped and narrow lower levels, and then they build out as far as they can beyond the edges of their property for the upper floors."

"Ingenious...but precarious, I imagine," Alistair would be glad when they had nothing more than free sky above them.

"_So_ precarious," Brand shook her head. "There's been one collapse and a couple incidents of children waking up on the streets because the floor beneath their beds gave way in the night. But it's a solution that didn't involve rioting or petitioning, and nothing important has been lost, so Anora and Arl Vaughan allow it."

_Anora_. Alistair's ears began to ring at the second mention of her name in so short a timespan. Anora, Queen of Ferelden and former wife of King Cailan Theirin. Anora, daughter of Loghain Mac Tir. Anora, his betrothed of one day.

_All I saw was snakeskin under the cool perfection._

"Is Anora a good queen?" Brand stopped walking when he asked this, her eyes narrowing in consideration.

"I..." Frown. "Is this something you really want to talk about?"

Alistair squared his shoulders to hide his immediate reaction to her concern. While he understood _why_ she would question him on this, given his unpredictable and somewhat fragile mood of late, it was frustrating to be _coddled_.

"Yes," his jaw tightened, although he managed to keep his voice even. "I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

With a shrug, and a quick glance towards Fiona, Brand nodded.

"I'd say that she is a good queen for those she wants to see her as such. Less so for those whose fate don't determine her longevity," she fixed him with a significant stare. "If you...get my meaning."

Alistair _did_ get her meaning, and he hated the way his chest was tightening at the implication.

"Protect the interests of the wealthy and the nobility and screw the commoners?" This didn't surprise him.

Brand was quick to shake her head, one hand going up as if she could conjure something that could help shade things a bit.

"As a woman of no royal blood ruling a country so recently devastated by conflict and Blight, she focuses more on her standing with the Landsmeet and the promotion of Ferelden than she does...other things," Brand was struggling to keep her tone and her words as neutral as possible. The city was full of the royal guard, and any of the number of plainclothed men and women jostling their elbows might serve in the castle, or in the homes of nobles who would not hesitate to spread the gossip if the Arlessa of Amaranthine was overheard speaking ill of the queen.

_Especially_ if it was the Arlessa of Amaranthine. Anora and Brand were the most powerful women in the country, and each owed their station in no small part to the other. It was unsurprising that their relationship, such as it was, had found itself as favored gossip fodder for the nobility.

"You sound like a politician, Brand. Is she keeping up appearances, then?" Alistair felt the corner of his mouth pull back.

"Yes, but she ensures it goes deeper than just appearances," her voice lowered and she moved so that they were walking almost elbow to elbow. _She smells like roses_. "I respect her, Alistair. Ruling is not easy, and taking over a country in ruins is a monumental task for anyone. Sometimes she's too quick to be the kneejerk pragmatist just to prove herself, and she has definitely made a few decisions that I disagree with, but she's done nothing so overtly wrongheaded or nearsighted that I would call for her to abdicate the thr..."

She stopped talking because Alistair had stopped walking, a stream of people adjusting to break around them. Fiona, Anders and Bryce, who had deliberately fallen back when the conversation turned serious, caught up to the pair but kept their distance.

"I'm sorry, Alistair," Brand bit her lip so hard it turned as white as her teeth at the edges. "I didn't mean to..._fuck_."

From the corner of his eye, Alistair saw Anders clamp his hands to Bryce's ears.

_Does she think I would _want_ it after all these years?_

His skin prickled with heat and his hands began twisting at his stomach.

_Does she think that's why I'm _here_?_

"Stop apologizing," he closed the space between them and his hands found their way back to his sides. It was an easier topic to address than the issue of his motivations. "It's not your job to protect me from this."

Cheeks flaring pink, her eyes darted away.

"Ok." Beat. "That's...good to know."

"And I don't expect you to hate her just because..." this was only partially true. Or maybe it was _all_ true, but there was some part of him that _wanted_ Brand to hate Anora, just because. "You were always able to measure and balance those things better than me. Strengths against weaknesses, performance versus potential. It's why I let you make the hard decisions."

He tried to smile, but could only grimace. _It's why I let you make the hard decisions_ was up there in painful awkwardness with _like five times_ and _I wouldn't call for her to abdicate the throne_. Fortunately Brand only touched the back of her neck, looking bemused and suddenly so much like her son rather than the other way around.

"Why did the Maker give _us_ tongues? Do you ever wonder that?" She dropped her hand, motioning the rest of the party forward. "Life might be easier if we could only communicate with broad gestures."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. After all, most mutes have their _tongues_," there was no mistaking where Anders was coming from with this. "You could always take a vow of silence. Spare the tongue, minimize the potential for boot eating. _I'd_ miss your delightful repartee, but it would be a fun challenge to see how long you could keep your word...under certain circumstances."

"Seriously, is there _any_ topic that you can't pervert?" Alistair scowled.

"Nope!" He was inordinately proud of this. "Granted, I'm not quite as committed as Oghren, or as subtle as Zevran, but I hold my own with the best of them. In all things, actually."

"Except eye stuff," Bryce had his arms around the sling that held Pounce, his cheek pressed against the feline's head. "Anders hates eye stuff."

"And this is the part where I feel like a terrible mother," Brand went up on her tiptoes, straining to see beyond the crowd. "Andraste's ass..."

"_Andraste's ass_." Bryce giggled; Brand cringed.

Curious as to what had her so vexed, Alistair craned his neck for a better view, seeing nothing but the tops of heads, the city wall, and the gate to Arl Eamon's estate.

"Ah, the gate," his shoulders twitched. "You don't think there'll be guards to let us in?"

"Unlikely," she urged the group forward with dogged determination. "After all, Eamon's...not available. Depending on what's been happening behind the scenes, the estate may have been infiltrated already."

"_So_ glad we chose to stay here instead of your brother's place," Anders' words were sarcasm coated nuggets of sarcasm, and miles away from the lighthearted double entendres from only moments before. "I'm looking forward to more assassins. We really haven't seen enough of _those_."

"I _know_," this was pure exasperation. "But there's a small possibility that Eamon knew something; maybe that's why he asked Alistair back. He's been advising Anora, albeit in a limited capacity, it's not foolish to think he might have a document or _something_ that could help us."

"Help us _what_?" His tone had turned challenging. "Win at the Landsmeet? Between what Fergus knows, what happened with Fallon, and the assumption that your own banns will back you, I can't imagine you're going to have to scrounge around for support."

"That's just it, you can't assume _anything_ when it comes to the Landsmeet, especially when we really have no idea what's going on outside of Amaranthine," Brand wasn't angry, only shaken and a tiny bit hurt. Voice lowering, the next came out as an intimate murmur. "Where is _this_ coming from?"

"I don't know," he seemed to mean it, even as his hazel eyes darkened and his lips pressed themselves into a thin line. "I just want this to be over."

That last bit was completely _in_sincere, but Brand didn't have the opportunity to ask the obvious question because they were nearly to Eamon's gate, and it being down was the _least_ of their worries.

"That is _not_ what I expected," Brand's mind reeled as she took in the group waiting, _obviously_ waiting, for her at the entrance to Eamon's estate. There were at least six knights in ceremonial plate, all of them gleaming pale purple in the late morning sun, and they flanked a pair of men in velvet cloaks of dark sapphire that were trimmed in pale furs. Surrounding them all was an air of irritation, as if Brand had agreed to meet them _hours_ ago and was deliberate in her tardiness.

"Who _is_ that?" Alistair's hands went to the hilts of his swords. "Friend or foe?"

"Foe," Brand raised her chin and mentally assessed the state of her appearance. They'd stayed overnight at an inn about two miles outside of Denerim proper, a ramshackle place that nonetheless had afforded them the opportunity to bathe. So she was clean, at least. Beyond that, she'd almost died less than a week ago and had spent the past few days doing little more than sleeping, eating the occasional bits of travel fare, and reading to Bryce. She no doubt looked every inch the shut in. _Oh, well. You were never going to be able to beat him in the finery department, anyway._ "_Overdressed_ foe who will probably not hold back on the personal insults."

"Do you think they'll attack?" Anders' mood had switched to concern. Even if Brand had been up to fighting, they were still outnumbered two to one. And _that_ wasn't even taking into consideration the fact that one of them would be dedicated to protecting Bryce.

"No, this is just a warning," she automatically straightened her cloak. "Or at least I hope it is. I can't see that he'd be foolish enough to risk something so close to the market. But, then again, Loren has never been known for making good decisions. Whatever you do, don't attack first. If it's going to get ugly, we can't be the instigators. Understood?"

The men nodded grimly, and Fiona caught Bryce's hand. Brand saw the faint glow of magic flow between them, a golden wave that would keep the child calm in the event that things became too heated. _I should send them away, to Gorim's shop or even Genitivi's. Even the Chantry would be safer...or it would be if my son wasn't an apostate. _

_Dammit_.

"Let's get this over with."

Bann Loren saw them first and, at his acknowledgement of her presence, the knights stood to attention, a faceless wall of metal and sharp surrounding a man who probably hadn't lifted a sword in twenty years.

_He defended his lands during the civil war by mindlessly following Loghain and Howe, even after what Howe did to Landra and Dairren._ Brand forced herself to think about Dairren, his dark eyes gleaming warmly in low torchlight and his fingers drawing gentle circles at the small of her back. Although her stomach hitched in protest, she knew it would be far worse if Loren was the one to bring him up first. It would throw her off, and she couldn't afford to be thrown off.

_More_ off.

"My _lady_," Loren's voice was high for a man's and he spoke with affected archness. "It is _so_ good to see you, Commander. Or should I call you Arlessa_?"_

_Is that supposed to be a dig?_

"Either?" Brand stopped so that there was nearly five feet of space between her and the bann. _Any closer and I might not be able to suppress the urge to clock him right in his smug face._ "I am both Commander of the Grey _and_ the Arlessa of Amaranthine, after all."

Bann Loren had probably been handsome in his youth; despite his age she could see some of Dairren in his features and thin, auburn hair. While Dairren's persona was of bored congeniality, there was an unmistakable air of desperation about Loren that only compounded the way he held himself with unearned arrogance, his lips curled in quiet disdain and pale cheeks mottled red with either nerves or heatstroke.

"Yes, yes," Loren rolled his eyes. "For now. Word around the city is that you're looking for a change in your station. I, for one, would have expected _you_ of _all_ people to _at least_ give Eamon the courtesy of a funeral first...but maybe you know something I don't. The good Arl _is _honestly dead, is he not?_"_

_Don't punch him, don't punch him._

Alistair shifted at her left elbow, and she projected her mantra back towards him. _Because that's _all_ I need, for Loren to be able to claim that a bastard Theirin, who swore he'd stay away from Ferelden, is out and about in Denerim and assaulting defenseless noblemen."Defenseless" noblemen._

"I'm not looking for a change in station, Loren. Besides," she allowed the tiniest amount of condescension to color her voice. "I'm _already_ an arlessa. This will just be a cross-country move for me. And _not_ one that I would have wanted under any other circumstances."

_I don't want it now, to be honest. If we had a decent bann to promote, I'd be promoting the _crap_ out of them and then running back to the Vigil to enjoy my life._

The red speckles on Loren's cheeks grew such that they consumed his entire face, but he kept his anger otherwise in check .

"And why do you want it now, Commander Arlessa? It's not ambition. When you were whoring around before your parent's _untimely_ demise, I never pegged you for _ambitious_. An _ambitious_ woman would set her eyes higher than minor banns, knights and squires. And Maker knows you could have asked for anything after you became 'The Hero'", his fingers emerged from within his cloak just to frame those words. "An _ambitious_ woman would have tried for Gwaren. Besides, Eamon _was_ widowed then. Why not marry _him_ and just wait to inherit Redcliffe?"

_Don't stab him, don't stab him._

"This isn't a matter of ambition, or anything of the like," Brand was starting to gesture emphatically, which kept her hands away from the daggers sheathed at her hips. "Redcliffe is _more_ than just an arling, Lord Loren. Redcliffe is a symbol of Ferelden's military strength, and vital to our national security. Despite my lack of ambition, or who I _didn't_ marry, or who I slept with before _your_ ally killed _my_ parents, I have proven myself to be an adept leader and strategist. Furthermore, my _son_ is a _Guerrin_. I'm not handing over his family's lands when I am capable of holding them myself."

Brand expected Loren to be somewhat mollified by her line of reasoning. She'd gone out of her way to _not_ mention assassins and those who might be helping _him_ change his station. For one thing, _so_ rude. For another, she'd rather he not know what _she_ knew.

Instead, he laughed and it was _terrible_, because she knew the moment he began sputtering what he was thinking and who he was going to attack.

"Your _son_ is a _Guerrin_," he dabbed his eyes with the edges of his cloak, the fur doing little to dry them. "Yes, we _all_ believe that. Don't we, Abernathy?"

His cloaked companion, who'd maintained a silent watch from his place just behind Bann Loren, cocked one eyebrow in such a manner that indicated Brand either thought _they_ were very stupid, or she was very stupid herself. Somewhere on her right was the smell of post-rain sky and _surely Anders would not _blatantly_ disobey an order?_

Stepping forward, her hand going quickly out in an indication to Anders that _now_ was _not_ the time to defend her honor, Brand lowered her chin and assumed the most intimidating stance she could.

"I don't care what you do or do not believe, my lord. To be honest, I don't care anything about _you_ at all." Every word was dagger sharp and even the pauses could tear effortlessly through Loren's stupid velvet cloak. "All _I_ know is that there is going to be a Landsmeet within the next few days, and I need to prepare my presentation to the banns. To the best of my knowledge, neither I nor Arl Eamon requested your presence here today and, furthermore, there is nothing I need or want from you."

"Bitch," he lingered over this word, caressing it with venom. _I bet he learned _that_ trick from Howe._ "You could spend the next five years preparing your presentation to the banns and you would still _fail_. I thought, perhaps, I could talk you out of your pathetic bid, spare you the embarrassment. I guess I underestimated how proud you are of your _bastards_ and your _maleficarum_. Darkspawn don't care who shares your bed, or the company you keep, but the Bannorn _certainly_ does."

His black eyes hard, Loren snapped a command to his knights and they marched past Brand's group, their helmets kept forward and even Loren and his Abernathy

_Ask around about this Abernathy. _

kept their noses up and their eyes to themselves.

"I don't think I've ever been called a _maleficar_ before," Fiona broke the uneasy silence that had befallen them with Bann Loren's exit.

"Huh. I actually thought you were one of the _bastards_," Anders' jaw was tight, but Brand could see he was attempting to keep the mood light.

"What's a maleficarm?" Bryce moved forward to lean against Brand's leg. "Is it like a monkey?"

"A _mon_key?" Anders' brows went up in delight. "Have I ever mentioned that I love the way your mind works, Bryce? No, a maleficar isn't a monkey. It's a type of mage."

"Oh," Bryce seemed to lose interest at the word _mage_, or maybe that was just Anders' training at work. He occupied himself with scratching behind Pounce's ears, the cat's gold eyes narrowed in appreciation, and Brand turned her attention to the gate and small courtyard beyond.

It was empty.

"We have two choices, that I can see," Brand stepped forward and pressed her cheek against one of the wooden slats that made up the portcullis and pointed to the groove along the right stone turret. "Either we can try to ice the counterbalances so that they raise the gate, or Anders gets to show off his escapist skills. Only...in reverse."

"Both seem equally ill-advised, _but_," Anders moved to assess the structures to the right of the entrance. There was a wooden fence that ran perpendicular to the gate and, just beyond, was a small stone guard outpost that shared a back wall with the gate house. "I'd have to say that _not_ using magic is the way to go here."

"Do you think you can get down without hurting yourself? That's an eight foot drop, at least, and it's been awhile since you've done anything like this," Brand offered him a wicked smile, thinking of the last time they'd needed him to break into a building. "And, for Alistair's sake, tell me that you're wearing smalls under those robes."

"Oh, _Maker_. You go without smallclothes?" Alistair, who had been momentarily lost during the maleficar/monkey conversation, cringed and regarded the mage with suspicion. "I _can't _imagine that's comfortable."

Anders shrugged and hopped onto the fence, his movements not unlike Pounce's when he took to the narrow strips of roof and railing on his adventures around the Vigil.

"In armor, yes. Pinchy and _incredibly_ inadvisable. In robes? Quite pleasant, actually," His eyes scanned the immediate area for guards before he stretched to place his hands on the slightly kipped edge of the outpost roof. Seeing that there appeared to be no lawminded onlookers, he pulled himself up without warning.

Alistair looked away in horror.

"Oh, come _on_, Alistair. It's not anything you haven't seen before," Brand laughed at his mortification, the confrontation with Loren settling comfortable at the back of her mind to be processed later _and alone_. "Remember Camp Naked?"

"How can I _forget_ Camp Naked?" he turned back, relief flooding his face when he realized that Anders was already over the wall and looking for the lever to raise the gate. "_Stupid_ skunk. They haven't invented a drink strong enough to erase the image of Oghren's…_ya'know_ out of my mind."

"We _know_," Fiona offered a small shudder. "_Everyone_ at the Vigil knows."

"And often! It still gives Garavel nightmares!" Anders smirked at them through the gate as it slid slowly up. "I am _very _happy for the part I've played to that end."

Alistair shook his head, which had gone fuzzy as he trembled between the _as much as we can,_ _we're going to make the best of this_ jokiness between Brand and Anders, and the heaviness that had hovered over them like a storm cloud since he'd seen the elven beggar. It had retreated a bit after Loren's dismissal, but he couldn't have been the only one who thought of the last time he and Brand had arrived here together, not even settled in before Loghain arrived to confront Eamon. Alistair had been a punching bag then, wincing at the slams against his character, and all because he was a _bastard, _while Brand struggled to keep herself from going for Loghain's bait and failing in the face of a sneering Howe.

"_Loghain, that bastard! He came in here to parade Howe in front of me, to let him gloat over the fact that he wears my father's bloodied title like a secondhand hat."_

_She looked out the window onto one of Eamon's neat patios and Alistair could see the conflict of heartbreak and frustration in the furrowing of her brow, the unshed tears in her eyes, and the set of her shoulders. Her temper had been lost out there and she'd turned defensive when she usually refused to acknowledge such deliberate attempts to enrage her._

"_Well, that wasn't the only reason. Or maybe he doesn't know who I am, and Howe has become the luckiest son of a hurlock in Thedas. Oh well, it's over and I have bigger things to worry about."_

Alistair stepped into the courtyard of a home he'd known since childhood, and tried not to feel the usual crush of expectations and history. It was hard, harder than almost anything he'd had to do since he arrived in Ferelden. Two weeks ago and he'd have been a broken man.

Now he had a little bit of perspective, and a different role to play. He wasn't the pawn this time; he was _nobody's_ bargaining chip.

He stole a sidelong glance at Brand to see her staring at the main entrance, unable to bound ahead with the same enthusiasm as her son. Her jaw was hard set, and her hands fisted at her sides. She, too, had been used in the days before the Landsmeet, played with perhaps more deftness by Anora and Eamon, but forced to act out a part she'd never choose on her own.

"Here we are," she continued to look ahead, but he saw her mouth twitch into a bemused smile, the pale scar on her chin deepening slightly. "Let's hope this goes better than _last_ time."

"_Better_ than ending a civil war and uniting Ferelden against the Blight?" This got her attention and she met his gaze; her eyes were full of warmth and regret. "Seems a stretch, Brand."

"I just think it would be nice if we both made it out _alive_ this time."

For a second he was stumbling out of the Landsmeet chamber, unable to really comprehend what had just happened, only that he would never feel _right _again.

Then he was standing beside Brand and it wasn't quite right, but it was no longer _wrong_.

He mirrored her smile. When it came to them, _b__ack from the dead_ seemed as apt a descriptor as any.


	46. Introspective

**Note from SF:** Hi! I just wanted to say a quick thank you to all my readers and reviewers! You're all awesome (I'm assuming...I don't know you all _personally_, of course).

I also want to give a heads up- this chapter is pretty smutty and not entirely NSFW at the end. The next couple of chapters are also going to contain some graphic happenings. So...fair warning.

* * *

"There is something weird happening here," Brand hadn't left the doorway of their room since they'd been escorted down the sweeping main hall of Eamon's estate. Her shoulders twitched with tension and Anders was just glad he'd managed to talk her out of her cloak so that he could see these small signs of concern. "We showed up out of the blue, and the entire staff is just...ready for us? Like they were expecting us? It makes no sense."

"Maybe Fergus sent word ahead?" Anders had abandoned the task of putting away their clothes when he realized that most of the garments in their packs were in desperate need of a good soaking. He was almost tempted to do it himself; it would be a distraction that wasn't the curve of Brand's bottom in her leather breeches, or the way that the tunic she wore clung to her chest. "Or maybe they heard about the Landsmeet and knew you'd show up eventually."

"Those are both valid theories," she looked back to where he was seated on the bed, and he couldn't ignore the flicker of confusion in her eyes at the sight of him. "I just hope it's _that _benign."

"Hope," the snort that followed was derisive, and a twinge of guilt in his stomach alerted him to the fact that he was really terrible at mood swings. "You'd think that you'd have moved beyond hope by now."

This turned her from her post, and even got the door closed with a satisfying thunk. As she approached him, he _forced_ himself to focus on the swing of her hips and not the darkening of her eyes.

"Talk to me, Anders" she came to a stop just in front of him to issue this command, although it was a command in only the loosest sense of the word. He took her proximity as an invitation, his hands going to wrap around the back of her thighs and his mouth hovering near her stomach.

"I'd rather do other things to you," he nuzzled her tunic up so that he could plant a kiss against the exposed flesh just above the waist of her breeches, his fingers curving in to brush against the inside of her thighs, high, and it was a small victory when she gasped and automatically tilted towards him. He was taking advantage of the fact that they'd barely touched each other since the morning that she'd died. Less than a week was nothing for most people, but Brand was not most people and...

"No," her hands found his wrists and pulled him away from her backside. "Nice try, darling."

_Dammit._

He allowed his brow to crumple in frustration, any attempt to keep things to his self undone under her worried gaze.

_Just tell her you're concerned for her safety. It's true enough and she won't ask more questions._

"I shouldn't be here," the last word rasped out _and where the fuck did _that_ come from_?

Brand's reaction was just as unexpected, her eyebrows shooting up and arms going across her chest. This was a classic _explain yourself_ pose, and it had been ages since she'd taken it with _him_.

"I did _not_ mean to say that," Anders leaned back onto the bed, supporting himself with his newly free hands.

"But you think it's true," a frown twisted at her lips. "Why shouldn't you be here?"

The coverlet beneath his palms was luxuriously soft. The wall hangings, the furnishings, everything around him spoke of wealth and power. The Vigil was an old fort, massive, but crumbling at the edges. The tapestries were faded, the floors worn, and there were about five doors in the entire place that closed correctly. For the first time, he was felt a keen awareness that he had his place in an invisible hierarchy. He wasn't nobility; he wasn't even titled within the Order. He was just a mage who got lucky, the son of a merchant and a healer and nothing more important than that.

Brand could look at him like he was the center of the world all she wanted, it didn't change the fact that he didn't fit here and, after the Landsmeet, he wouldn't fit with _her_.

And that wasn't even why he was angry.

"I'm dangerous to your cause," he recalled the sneer on Bann Loren's lips as he accused Bryce of being a bastard. "If Loren and his ilk really _do_ think that Bryce is illegitimate..."

"Stop," she cut him off sharply. "That's my concern, not yours."

"So what they're saying doesn't bother you?"

"_What_ they're saying?" Her breath caught. "No. It doesn't bother me. That they're making up false proof and _perpetuating_ the lie to hurt my reputation bothers me. But it's only politically dangerous, and immediately so. Teagan acknowledged Bryce up until his death, he swore in front of the Maker and a group of priests that Bryce was his son and could legally carry the Guerrin name. Only Teagan or Eamon could take that away from him. Not Bann Loren. Not even _Anora_."

"Is it possible that Teagan or Eamon _did_ take it away?" Anders didn't like the question, but there was something so wrong with how supremely self-righteous Loren had seemed by the gates, as if his position on the matter was unassailable. "What if that's why Eamon was bringing Alistair back to Ferelden? Is there any chance that..."

_Is there any chance that your husband thought that you were passing another man's son off as you own? _How did a person _ask_ that?

Fortunately for the awkwardness levels in the room, Brand got the implication and it moved her to sit next to him on the bed, her hands clasped at her knees as she contemplated what he was nudging her towards.

"Until we got to Amaranthine, I would have said that there was absolutely no chance," her voice was surprisingly level, considering the subject matter. "But Alistair indicated that, according to Nathaniel, Teagan had his concerns...at least about my faithfulness."

"And you believe Nathaniel?" Anders had always found the friendship between the two men, well, _boring_. All they did was talk about hunting and trapping. Nathaniel was at his most interesting when the conversation was about poisons or women, and Teagan had no interest in the former and nothing more to say than "married" about the latter. "Why?"

Brand looked up at him, and he could see her wavering between a confession and a dismissal.

"He saw me crying in your room after you left," this was definitely a confession. "I told him that I missed you as a friend, the way I missed Leliana or Zevran. It's possible he didn't believe me. But..."

"_Did_ you only miss me as a friend?" Anders could recall her expression as he said his good-byes, everything so carefully neutral. If he was honest with himself, it had hurt that she would let him leave without argument, without expressing more than _be careful_.

"No," her eyes closed for a moment. "I...no. If you're wanting me to say that I was in love with you all that time, I can't. But I also can't say that I _wasn't_. All I know for certain is that there wasn't any part of me that _wanted _to see you go. Not then, not ever."

This was _way_ more than Anders had been expecting, and he was surprised at the sudden looseness he felt just below his breastbone. It was something like relief, knowing that his longing for her wasn't so one-sided, knowing that all the times she withdrew from him when he'd bump her arm or say something a bit too flirtatious it was because she was struggling the same as he was with the boundaries between them and how it felt to be so close _all the time_ but kept apart by circumstance.

"Why did you let me go, then? You know that I would've stayed."

Brand smiled at this and he realized that she _wasn't_ crying, even though it must hurt her on some level to admit these things, or even think about what could have been.

"I couldn't keep you from doing what you wanted to do," she reached over and touched his neck. "It would have been unfair to expect you to give up your freedom...any of it...for me."

And that's why he loved her. That and how her lips felt against his when she leaned forward to kiss him, leading them into an embrace that was surprisingly tender considering the lingering tension on the air between them.

"Anders," her voice was wonderful, low and melodious. He loved that, too, and the way she looked at him with her clear green eyes and the way she smiled at him and he really did feel like he was the center of the world when he was with her, and Bryce. For all that being nothing more than a mage would mean in the grand scheme of his life, she had never put such limits on him or _seen_ them. "Don't ever say that you shouldn't be here, when _here_ is with me. It will _never_ be true."

"You _do_ know that I'm going to drop in on the Landsmeet now, right in the middle of the arguments. I might wear robes," he smirked, his mood brightening by the second. "But I'm seriously considering...not."

"And no smalls?" She was nuzzling along his jaw; he could hear the small _skritching_ of his stubble against her skin between breaths and it was a sound he'd come to appreciate because it meant _close_ and usually _naked soon_.

_bangbangbang _The door rattled against the frame.

"Oh for..." Brand withdrew from her pursuit and they were both surprised to realize that Anders hand had already worked its way beneath the hem of her tunic and up to her left breast.

_bangbang_

"Hold on!" This shout was accompanied by a bemused smile. "No rest for the wicked, huh? That's probably Nathaniel and Sigrun..."

"And that means to business," Anders allowed her to pull away and to answer the door, although his hands felt strangely empty now without her within reach, without her skin warm against his palm and fingertips. _There's always tonight_, he reminded himself. _And maybe _then _you can relax._

His mind flashed to several things that her sincere words and gentle touch should have erased- most prominent amongst them was her stretching to kiss her husband while he watched from a distance, jealousy twisting his stomach _and I don't ever want to be there again_.

"Hey, have you fallen asleep?" Brand and Nathaniel were watching from the doorway and wearing matching expressions of gentle amusement. "We're going to meet in Eamon's study. The Chamberlain told Nathaniel that there's a table large enough for all of us and it's more private than the library or the dining room."

"And we can _eat_ there," Sigrun piped up from behind Nathaniel, her face barely visible from Anders's position. "Eating _gooood_."

"Now _that_ is worth something," Anders stood to join his fellow Wardens and cleared his head of the nudges of discontent that had been working at him these past few days. "I can _always_ eat."

"That's not the _only_ thing you can always do," Sigrun giggled and swatted his arm as Brand and Nathaniel walked in front of them, heads close as they talked. "Maybe the only thing you can always do in front of an audience."

"_Sigrun_," his tone was lightly admonishing.

"I know, I know," Sigrun shook her head. "I still have the image of you and...what was her name?"

"Florence!" Anders closed his eyes and tried to picture a curvy, raven haired young woman with brown-black eyes that burned.

"Marlena," Brand called out over her shoulder. "Seriously? You don't remember _Marlena_? She was _gorgeous_."

"But not that great, if I remember correctly," Sigrun shuddered. "And I really _don't like_ that I remember correctly."

"Yeah," Anders' slipped back for a second to an afternoon spent wooing this Marlena, and how she'd regarded him with equal parts trepidation and curiosity. It had been several hours of work for ten minutes of anything worth remembering and then she'd told some of the other maids that he was a sloppy kisser. "Such a shame; she _was_ gorgeous. On the bright side, they finally fixed the latch on the practice room door after that!"

"We had _lots_ of latches fixed after that," Brand stopped in front of a door that was directly across from her own quarters, although it seemed miles away considering the massive amount of open space in Eamon's estate. She pushed through to the study where Alistair was seated at an oblong table that was carved from highly polished mahogany and littered with goblets of wine, and baskets of fresh fruit, cheese and assorted crackers. Fiona had taken a post on one of the chaises that were positioned near a small library just as they entered the room, Bryce curled up at the end and fast asleep with Pounce tucked neatly behind his knees. "Oof, this room."

Anders glanced over, his eyebrow going up. Her demeanor had shifted dramatically the moment she crossed the threshold and, for several long minutes, he thought she might storm back out. Instead, she nodded for her Wardens to join Alistair on the far side of the table while she took a seat opposite them.

"So...the Landsmeet," her hands splayed on the smooth surface in front of her and she took her time considering what to say before she spoke. Even Anders grew fidgety while she remained silent, his eyes searching the room and it was, like every other here, ridiculously oversized and full of expensive looking pieces that appeared as if they hadn't been used more than once or twice.

Anders wasn't the only one with a wandering gaze; he caught Fiona staring at the wall behind Brand and he followed her until he was confronted by three portraits of the Guerrin siblings and their spouses, the paintings almost identical to the three in Teagan's study at the Vigil but more elaborately framed.

_Oh._ He glanced at the elf again, and he could see real pain etching itself in her face as she stared at the largest of a golden haired man and his lovely, brunette bride. Anders understood how she was feeling; the portrait of Brand and Teagan was now _demanding_ his attention and he couldn't even just ogle _her_ because she looked so sad and that _one day_ had cost him _five years_ of happiness. _Potential_ happiness.

"The Landsmeet," Brand was ready, but three of the five Wardens across from her were otherwise preoccupied. "What's _wrong_ with you?"

It was Alistair who responded with a grim nod towards the wall. Anders wondered which of portraits bothered him the most- his father who never acknowledged him? his recently dead ward? or his former lover on her wedding day?

_Maker. Sucks to be Alistair._

Brand turned to take in the paintings and, from the back, it was hard to tell what she might be thinking. Anders knew she'd never loved them being up in her apartment, _especially_ Eamon and Isolde. Having them looming over her while she discussed how to take on their family title might be a bit much for her to handle. Still, he was surprised when she stood and went her own wedding portrait, her hands sliding along the bottom of the frame to get a sense of how much it weighed before she lifted it a few inches up and out.

"Damn, these things are about a million pounds." With it off the wall, she was able to lower it to the floor and scoot it sideways until it was beyond a bookshelf and out of sight. Alistair and Anders stood simultaneously; Anders took Eamon, Alistair his father, and Brand was right, the frames _were_ ridiculously heavy.

Once the wall had been cleared of its memories, and Alistair and Anders had reclaimed their seats, Brand remained standing and began outlining her plans for the next several days.

"According to Nathaniel, Oghren is in Denerim and has Lemmy, Remiah, Barkley and Haver with him. For now he can stay at the Gnawed Noble. Nathaniel, I want you and Sigrun to rent rooms at the Wolf. With a Landsmeet coming up, the Gnawed Noble will be overfull and the Wolf is the second most popular inn for the nobility," she leaned back against the newly bared wall, her arms going across her chest. "For tonight and tomorrow, I want you to listen to every conversation you possibly can and pay close attention to every single detail. Who's talking, who's listening, what they're wearing and who they're with. I need to know as much as I can about what's been going on outside of Amaranthine and Highever these past few months, and this is probably the quickest way to get that information.

"You'll be recognized at some point, and it's fine. I just want you to avoid escalating any confrontations. I don't care if people know that I'm being put forward to take Eamon's place, and I don't care if people know you're out there trying to get a sense of the situation in the Bannorn. That's normal and they won't think anything of it," she paused and tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her stomach. "However, do _not_ give anyone any information _whatsoever_ about what has happened since I left the Vigil to get Alistair. You can tell people, if they ask, that Alistair has returned to the Wardens, but nothing about assassins, or Eamon's murder, or Melisande. Especially Melisande."

Nathaniel jerked his chin in understanding and Sigrun mumbled an "All right, Commander."

"I'll meet with Oghren tomorrow morning to discuss what he and his men need to do and-"

"And tell him that he's going to be Arl of Amaranthine?" Nathaniel tilted his head. "For that matter, does the _First Warden_ even know?"

"You're kidding, right?" Brand's hands found the back of her abandoned chair and she clung so tightly it was almost as if she was afraid she might be carried away by the current of events as they swept around her. "_I_ haven't had time to come to terms with this. Not really. There's just not been enough time to do this the right way. The First Warden won't be pleased, and he may reappoint someone as Warden-Commander of Ferelden, but this is the price of forcing us into the Landsmeet. We're too far from Weisshaupt for things to be handled the way they should be."

"Ullan is going to be furious, Brand," Fiona kept her eyes down. "He may even send some of his own men to take over operations in Ferelden."

"I've thought about that, and if it happens...well, my vassals will decide whether it works out for the new regime or not. If the First installs a Commander that can't pull her, or his, weight as arl, then Amaranthine will become so unstable that the banns will probably be forced to approach Anora and ask that the Wardens be removed from the Landsmeet, if not stripped of their lands entirely," Brand spoke with surprising authority on this subject. When she said she'd thought about it, she wasn't exaggerating. "I plan on requesting an audience with our queen in which these details will be worked out. This whole arrangement between the throne and the First hinges on it being satisfactory to all involved. I will do whatever I can to smooth the transition between myself and Oghren and we'll just have to deal with the First's reaction when the First reacts."

"And if Oghren refuses?" Sigrun was nibbling on a freckled green apple; the tart aroma was making Anders' mouth water. "He likes the idea of commanding, but I don't know what he'll think about the administrative part."

"I assume Varel will deal with most of that," Anders helped himself to a wedge of cheese and a few dry crackers that had been set out on the table. It wasn't a feast, they'd been assure that would be forthcoming, but the food might settle his stomach a bit. "Too bad you can't make _him_ arl."

"You know, I bet we _could_-"

"_No_," Fiona glared down the table to Anders. "Don't drag me down with you."

"Why not?" Anders mumbled this around a mouthful of crackers. "Misery loves company."

"Hey!" This interjection sounded legitimately hurt and it took a few seconds for Brand to regain her composure. "_Anyway_. I'm going to meet with Oghren tomorrow before anything _too_ official gets decided. Then, from there, we're going to begin working the leads that we get from around the city. I'm hoping Fallon will join me and I'll be making the rounds with Fergus once he gets into Denerim. And, because I've decided to be optimistic, I'm hoping to hear from Mr. Ariainai _sooner_ rather than _later_."

"He'll probably arrive in the middle of the night," a note of worry was clear in Alistair's voice. "If I wake up with elf assassin in my bed...well, first I'll be happy that I _woke up_. Then I'll probably react poorly."

"Just lock your doors and windows and make sure you close all the trapdoors in your ceiling," Brand paused as if she was considering whether or not she was missing something.

"Check under your bed!" Anders took a long drink of wine. "That seems like a place for Zevran to be."

"He's also fond of wardrobes," Nathaniel frowned thoughtfully and Anders was forced to suppress a tiny giggle as he recalled one morning when Nathaniel's shouts of _I was walking around naked in there all morning!_ were followed by Zevran's easy laughter and _I was only acting on your commander's orders, my muscular friend. _

"Sometimes he hides in basins. But only if they have curtains around them," this was Sigrun, and she was clearly delighted by the entire conversation. She'd had a longstanding crush on the elf and had found his constant sneaking around the Keep to be like entertainment of a sort. "Garavel couldn't shut up about _that_."

"So...anywhere. He could be anywhere," Alistair ran his hands through his hair, pushing the longer part on top back and up. "Awesome."

"You knew that, Alis," Brand's voice was soft, _familiar_, when she said this and Anders could not help but startle at the familiar way she said _Alis_. _Since when is he _Alis_? Is Alis_tair_ really that hard to say?_ "Now, if nobody has anything else, I'll see you in the dining hall in a few hours. I have some work waiting for me in my quarters."

Garth, Eamon's seneschal in Denerim, had promised that he'd delivery a small case of documents to Brand's room while they were meeting. These missives were apparently kept separate from the arl's regular books and Garth's readiness to hand them over to her was one of the details of their arrival that had Brand on edge earlier.

Not that she was on edge any longer. During their short debriefing, whatever nerves she may have possessed had apparently been soothed by her own words. _It was so simple_, Anders thought, his hands pressing together beneath the table. _Eavesdrop on some nobles, charm some other nobles, hobnob with assassins and we're in. Everything will work out _perfectly_._

He allowed a tiny sigh to escape in the hopes that it would do _anything_ to clear his own mind, ease his own sense of disquiet. Why, after weeks of _this_ and of being so confident that everything would be fine even if fine meant him on one side of the world and her on the other, was he so damn pessimistic?

So pessimistic, and so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed Brand's hand extended to him in an offering of _let's get out of here_. Fiona had returned to the chaise with Bryce, her head already bowed over a dusty tome, and the other three Wardens had left without Anders realizing it.

"You were very _competent_ in there," Anders kept his distance as he and Brand walked back to their room. Despite the fact that the maids had seen them go in together that morning, he imagined that _some_ amount of discretion would be a good thing. "I _love_ it when you're competent."

"Are you sure it doesn't make you miserable?" She offered him a smirk, but there was still traces of _you can be an ass_ at the edges of her eyes.

"You know what I meant."

"No, actually. I _don't_ know," her hand closed the gap between then and caught his belt. "All I know is that you're being kind of petulant right now and even though you deserve to have a bad day, especially since you've been absorbing all of mine, too, I don't think it's fair to insult me-"

"I didn't insult you," he was less defensive than he was _horrified_ that she felt _offended_ by what he'd said. "Look, we both know that mages and nobility don't really mix...at least not easily. What, does Varel become arl and show up with his elven mage lover at Anora's fancy balls? Do you become Arlessa Married to That Mage Who Escaped All Those Times and Maybe Killed Her First Husband? We can be perfect for each other in every other way, but there's always going to be this huge aspect of who you are, and what you are, that I can't share."

"It's a title, Anders, and my job. It's not _who I am_," her face had gone terrifically pale, and her eyes were gleaming with no small amount of defensiveness. "If _you_ want to freak out because other people might think less of me because I'm with _That Mage_, then go ahead. It feels weird, since you're pretty much the most confident person I've _ever_ met, but I'll play along because you want me to. Meanwhile, I'll just look pretty and explain that That Mage, and Varel's mage, could be arls if the First Warden or I were to name you as my successor. Do I have to remind you that you're a Grey Warden? And that Bann Loren is a tosser who can only even entertain the idea of power if he has a syndicate of assassins helping him out?"

"I could be an _arl_?" Anders blinked. He'd never even _thought_ about what would happen if the Warden-Commander was a mage. He'd had a passing chuckle at the idea of _Oghren_ at the Landsmeet, but a _mage_? "I really can't see _that_ happening."

Brand shrugged, some of the fight going out of her eyes. "It's in the agreement Anora has with Ullan. Anyone qualified to be Commander of the Grey can also hold the title of Arl or Arlessa of Amaranthine. There was some concern raised on Anora's part about how the Chantry would respond to a mage having that much power, but she was convinced that being a Warden trumped race, breeding _and_ mage…_ee_…ness."

"Huh," Anders came to a stop, realizing that they were at their chamber door. "It still _seems_ unlikely. What would I know about having vassals and holding court?"

"Oh, _nothing_," this was punctuated by a small laugh. "I mean, it's not as if you've been watching me do the job for the past four years. Oh, wait…you totally _have_!"

"I've been watching _you_, not necessarily paying attention to the _job_ you're doing," a quick scan of her face indicated that she wasn't being completely sarcastic. "I'd be a horrible Arl."

"Yeah," she leaned back against the door, her mouth twisted in contemplation. "You'd be awful. Kind, smart, charismatic, honest, just, compassionate, well-read…all things that are frowned upon in a liege. I mean, never mind all the banns who you've personally helped by being a Warden _and_ one that's willing to offer your healing expertise upon request. Besides, with Varel at your side not even you could screw up _that_ much."

"And you were doing so well, too," he moved closer, his eyes on her lips because he'd had an idea that was probably a terrible one and he needed a distraction before it _really_ got a hold of him. "But feel free to keep the complements coming. I don't think you tell me how wonderful I am nearly enough."

"I really don't," her voice was low as she tugged his belt and her other hand was searching for the doorknob. "Nice voice? Tall…your hair is _always_ soft and you smell better than most men."

The latch clicked behind her, the door falling open so that they could rush inside and close it again, this time with Anders pinned against its surface, Brand pressing herself against him and her eyes were full of lust and _ideas_ and his fingers were skimming along the waistband of her trousers but she was not yielding the way she normally would.

"Tell me what's wrong," it was not a romantic whisper, nor was it an outright demand. She stretched up along him, her chest rubbing against his and her hips sliding against a spot just below his stomach. "This is all you'll get until you tell me."

"What if this is all I need? Or want?" She began to pull away, but he caught her backside before she could get _too_ far. "It's _not_, so you needn't _worry_."

"So _tell_ me. Get it off your chest so we can enjoy ourselves," her teeth were slightly bared and she dragged them along his jaw, the sound as erotic to him as it had been earlier and she knew a thousand ways to undo him and he was only a _man_.

"Bann Fallon has it in his head that he'd like to propose to you," Anders smirked the best he could when all he wanted to do was moan as her hand found its way between them and was doing _very_ specific things to…specific things. "He told me last night at the inn. He says you're _nice_."

_Nice_ came out almost as if _nice_ was a pretty terrible thing to call a person, and all Anders could do was hope that Brand knew what he meant when he said it that way. _Nice_ was a mediocre dinner, _not_ the woman in his arms.

"He doesn't know me at _all_, then," this was punctuated with a nibble at his ear lobe. "Or he'd know that I'm not interested."

"He won't be the only one to ask," Anders slid his palm up her back, her tunic dragging up with it. "And we'll be apart, so _this_ sort of thing won't be so fresh in your memory."

Brand moved so that she could look him in the eyes, her expression strangely soft considering the havoc she'd been wreaking to the front of his robes.

"I love you, ok? And there's nothing any man can give me, or offer me, that can make me stop loving you," her hand slid along his cheek, the gesture sweetly reassuring and it was good to be on the receiving end of this kind of reassurance. "And I haven't thought about _you_ without _me_ at the Vigil? Surrounded by flirty young maids and new recruits? What if Oghren brings back a pretty mage, and you bond over hating the Tower and what it's like to be so awesomely powerful that just the word _mage_ strikes fear in the hearts of others? _That's_ something that we will never share."

"No, people are afraid of _you_, too," his fingers curled into her tunic. "And it's actually _deserved_."

"Anders, it's going be hard no matter what, and we might not make it to the end of our lives in _any_ state of togetherness. But if we don't, it'll be because you were able to find someone that you could be with like a normal person. And I won't resent you, I _can't_ resent you, because you've done way more for me than most people get done for them in a lifetime, and I _need_ you to have a life that is as close to what you want it to be as you can get, or I will just..._drown_ thinking I held you back your whole life," somehow she wasn't crying, somehow her voice was level and her eyes honest. "I cheated on you, and you just...moved on to being awesome and keeping me from fucking things up even worse. You love me so much that you just..._did_ that. And you love Bryce so much that when I said he'd stay at the Vigil, you immediately took ownership and who else in this world would do that? Who could _ever_ give me what you've given me?"

"All right," Anders wasn't quite certain what he could say to that, to a heart offered up to him as open as any ever could be. "That... makes things better."

"Good," she inched back and began fiddling with the hem of her blouse. "Now can we stop being so damned introspective and get naked?"

"Maker, _yes_."

The tunic came off first, the cuffs getting tangled in Anders fingers and the ensuing struggle was briefly amusing as they couldn't keep their lips apart long enough to pay any attention to what they were doing besides making obscene amounts of contact that, because of the _obsceneness_, left them both urgent for more.

It wasn't far to the bed, but between the fight with the tunic and Anders' robes and the way that, when they finally fell to form a pool of inconvenient fabric around their boots, Brand had somehow managed to get them turned around so that she was half-naked and stretched against the door, the bed seemed an impossible inconvenience.

Brand didn't seem to mind as she buried one hand in Anders' hair and the other secured itself around him and began to stroke, languidly at first and then _faster_ when his mouth began its journey from her neck to her breasts so his tongue could draw circles around her nipple and that's when he pulled away from her so that he could kneel to undo the laces of her trousers, each tug of the leather ties accented by a kiss on the newly exposed skin until he was able to peel them away from her hips, his fingers catching her undergarment in the process until she was completely exposed in front of him. Not even telling himself to take his time as he slid back up her bared legs could keep him from pressing his mouth against her; the warmth from her as he parted her thighs was intimately familiar, as was the way she tasted and the way her hot, slick skin danced at the tip of his tongue.

_All _of her danced at the tip of his tongue; her fingers were entwined in his hair and her hips were moving in a subtle but insistent rhythm against him and all of it was working for him, desire pooling in his stomach and warming his limbs on top of what he'd been feeling before...

_This is what I want for the rest of my life, not maids or some hypothetical girl from _anywhere_._

Brand moaned just as everything turned slightly less _subtle_ and Anders could tell by the way she was moving against him that she was close to her edge, but she was urging him back up and her leg was thrown up to hook over his hip before he'd even had the chance to find her mouth with his. From there it was so easy to be pulled inside of her, to lose himself in her wide green eyes and the heat of her skin against his and how much had he missed this? It hadn't been that long _at all_, yet the intensity was about to split him open as his heart battered against his breastbone, and his hand clung to the back of her thigh just beyond where it was slipping back and forth against his waist as he thrust against her. She was guiding him with her fingers digging into his buttocks and signaling endless amounts of approval in the drive of her hips and the moans that sometimes managed to form words and something like _Anders_.

It didn't take long for either of them, the sense of upward mobility making them feel unmoored into a place where they were all that kept the other from spinning into nothingness. Anders quickened his pace, the urge to ensure her arrival via a judicious application of magic disappearing as she threw her head back for one last gasp and he could feel her muscles tightening against him before she became loose-limbed in his arms and it was a blissfully happy face that greeted him as he came, one that was bright and amused to be catching him as he tilted forward against the door, suddenly needing a little more support as he unspooled inside of her and she welcomed him with an incomprehensible murmur that just seemed _right_.

_I love you, ok?_

She was catching her breath, her damp forehead pressed to his and he had just been driven past a point if unbelievable pleasure and the smile on her face was what consumed him.

"I have papers to go over," her arms were tight around his neck. "And the only way I'm going to be able to do anything but you is if _you_ are clothed and nowhere in sight."

"Is this _go away_?" He pushed his lower lip out a bit in faux hurt.

"You know what I'd rather be doing, but..." she kissed him again, her teeth stopping first to catch that lower lip before she relaxed against him for a long embrace that did nothing to make Anders want to put on clothes _or_ leave. "I do have a thing to worry about that's not yours."

"I understand," his fingers raked up her back and he tilted his head a bit to grin down at her. "And there will be nights."

"There will definitely be nights," she pulled away, but one palm lingered against his cheek. "Don't start counting down to an end, Anders, and don't let me get away from myself."

"What?" It was such a strange request to come from nowhere and it was already extremely hard to focus at the moment.

"You'll know."

A cryptic answer, but he let it go so he could think about gathering his robes. Brand would be returning to business and he had a few things to think about.

_And maybe even a new opportunity to pursue._


	47. Second Chances

Soft morning light fell in shafts across the bed, illuminating the throat and shoulders of the woman next to him as she slept, her face turned mostly into the down pillow and her dark hair tousled in contrast to her pale skin.

_All that time we spend in the sun, how does she never get any sort of color?_ Alistair ran his hand along her cheek, trying very hard to not think about how she shouldn't even be there, and certainly not so...

"Why are you naked?" Her eyelashes had began to flutter only seconds before he asked, and she smiled sleepily, sweetly, in response. He inched closer out of habit and in sudden need of some contact. "Why are you here?"

"Oh, Alistair," Brand's hand fumbled out from beneath the blanket and she somehow managed to cup his chin even though he was fairly certain that her eyes had yet to open. "I thought we were gotten past all this...questions."

"That doesn't even make any sense," Alistair caught her hand and began to kiss her fingertips one at a time, his gaze never leaving her face because he knew that, any minute now, she would really wake up and he _loved_ it when she really woke up. "If anyone saw you in here..."

"Then I'd explain that Morrigan has really pointy knees. And Charon needs a bath," her eyes finally made their grand appearance, deep forest green from the still lingering fog of deep slumber. "And two grown women and a mabari are really _not_ meant to fit into a simple double bed. _Especially_ when one of those grown women, say it with me, _has really pointy knees_. And frost spells at her disposal."

"She _wouldn't_," Alistair slid one hand down Brand's bare back, trying very hard to not become too excited by the way that she automatically curved her body into his.

"She took my pillow. I wanted it back, but not enough to risk _frostbite_ over," Brand closed whatever distance remained between them, her nose nudging his in invitation. "So I came here. Would you have rather I bunked with Zev and Leli?"

This last question was asked with such feigned innocence that Alistair could only laugh his disproval of the notion, his mouth finding hers and there was such warmth between them, every point of contact like a small pool of sunlight even beneath the thick blankets and it lingered in his vision as he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the press of her body against his and the way her hips felt beneath his palms and she positioned herself on top of him and began to _move_.

"I'm glad you came here," this came out in small gasps; warmth had become all-consuming and he felt like a child again, one sleeping in the cold stables with only a thick wool blanket for protection. He would wrap himself head to toe, tucking any loose edges beneath him the best he could, and just stay completely still. Movement might have unraveled that blanket, his only protection and his only comfort on those frigid and unending nights, and now words might puncture the cocoon around him and her and even though this was just _good morning_ to her, there was desperation enough when she kissed him that he knew she found comfort in being with him, and comfort was what she needed most. "I like being this to you."

She stopped _moving_ long enough to smile down at him, although there were questions in her eyes and the tiniest trace of dissent in the way one corner of her mouth fell out before the other.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Fiona shifts uncomfortably and Alistair realizes with a jerk that he'd fallen asleep in Eamon's office and was only dreaming.

"I don't..." he shakes his head, and that doesn't really help anything. He has no idea what time it might be, or what day. He has a distant recollection of a meeting, and trying to find a place in this estate that didn't dredge up some horrible memory and there just wasn't any. Even the office, fairly neutral although it _did_ remind him of being on the edges of his life at a moment when he should have been taking full control, led him to Brand. "I was dreaming."

"I'm not surprised," the elf tucks her feet beneath her and frowns down at the book in her lap. "Brand told me that this place was full of ghosts. That was..." she pauses and taps her fingers. "Oh, a few months ago."

With a sigh, Alistair shifts back against his end of the couch and thinks about the portraits they'd taken down. Maric and Rowan. Eamon and Isolde. Brand and Teagan. He thinks about abandonment, of pride, of respectable distance and opportunities seized. He thinks about how he would have done it all so much differently.

"I would never have let you talk me into abandoning my son," he says this and he knows that it's coming from a place of _not that I would ever have that choice_.

"Maybe not," is all Fiona can say, her fingers running along the pages in front of her.

"I would never have made my ward sleep in stables and kennels, and I would never have sent him to the Chantry against his will, and I would _never_ have married a woman just months after she'd been loved by someone I called a friend," Alistair has no idea again, none _at all_. _Where do these words come from? _

"Then you are a better man than Maric, Eamon and Teagan," her head remains bowed, but Alistair sees a trembling in her hands and it actually hurts him to know that he is the cause.

"But I'm _not_," he looks to where Brand had shoved the portraits, remembering the wave of respect he'd felt when he realized that she was actually taking them down and not wallowing in what they _meant_. "I just know how it all turns out...and it sucks. For all of us."

He settles back for good, his gaze finding the fireplace and it's been allowed to shrink to a few small flames amongst a pile of orange embers and blackened wood. He knows that all it would take to get it blazing is a wave of Fiona's hand, but she seems as content to sit in the feeble light and relative chill of a dying fire as he is.

His lips part and there are more words, questions actually, and he has a feeling that it's the anonymity of a late night study and a lack of decent illumination that is loosening his tongue. Fiona is Fiona, his mother as much as anyone could be called such, but she's also little more than a shadow that's several feet away.

"The elven beggar..." he knows what he wants to ask, but has no idea how to soften it. "Life in the alienage is hard in Denerim. Maybe harder than life in Antiva City's."

She does not react.

"I have no idea where you're from, besides Orlais," something presses against his throat, something urgent. "I want to know...whatever you're willing to share."

For several minutes, Fiona does _not_ share. She does not move, even, and it is only a tiny hitch in her chest that alerts Alistair to her continued existence. Part of him wants to withdraw his request, part of him wants to pull it back in and save it for another night. Or never. _Never would be less...mortifyingly uncomfortable._

"I know how hard life can be in an alienage," her voice is like an echo of her normal voice; she is letting someone into a place where she seldom allows _herself_ to go anymore. "I also know how hard life can be in a noble's home, or as a Circle mage. Especially for an elf, but elves aren't the only ones who suffer in places that might seem like safety from the outside."

"You became a Warden to escape?" Alistair allows the sad tinge of her words to paint a picture that specificity could not have done justice, but he ignores the growing ache in his chest. Nothing about her posture is indicating that she wants or needs his sympathy.

"Yes."

"Was it worth it?"

She looks up at this, her face caught in what little light glows up from the hearth and she's smiling a wry half smile.

"Haven't you asked yourself the same question, Alistair? You avoided your vows, you were able to fall in love and help save the world, but...at what price? I was able to escape abuse, and I fell in love with a good man and had a beautiful child, but..." her gaze darts away as she trails off. "We escaped only to land right back into a different trap."

"Yes," the word is strangled by his throat as he thinks of a million things at once. She was right, horribly so. They both had been given the freedom to take the chances they wanted and walk away from the ones that didn't appeal to them, and exercising this freedom had made their lives wonderful and terrible. "I think it was worth it, if only because of now."

"What's now?" Her eyes were still on the fireplace. "Besides the threat of death?"

"The threat of death should be nothing for Grey Wardens," Alistair's hands open and close in his lap. "These aren't the best of circumstances, but I'm looking at it like this- now is a second chance that I probably don't deserve. Now is a second chance that most of us think we don't deserve. Except for Anders, and I don't think he has any concept of _undeserved_."

Fiona responds with a snort and the fire is suddenly full and crackling, the circle of light and warmth extending far past where she and Alistair sit on opposite ends of a couch. It's indescribably pleasant, and it would be perfect if he could relax the last bit of tension within him that persisted in Fiona's presence.

_Remember what happened the last time you trusted someone that much...remember how much it hurt._

He's on his feet and moves to the edge of light, thinking as he does so of roaches and darkspawn...other creatures that prefer to exist in darkness.

"What are you going to do differently?" Fiona's question is asked with a cadence even quicker than her usual briskness, recognizing as she did all the signs of flight.

"Everything," Alistair doesn't stop until he's at his room, the door closed behind him and the back of his head hits the wooden surface the way it did all those years ago, when there was a regicide that needed to be deposed and a Blight on and the only thing he had to worry about was being engaged to Anora.

_You were so naive._

He pulls away from the door, clothing falling away as he approached his bed.

Brand had been curled up on her side, her arms wrapped so tightly around herself that white marks remained along her back even after he unfurled her. He focused on those as he pulled her back against him, because there were also fresh bruises everywhere and he just could _not_ allow himself to think about what might have been done to her at Fort Drakon.

"I was so worried," he pressed his mouth to the base of her neck and the skin was cold against his lips. She was all cold, like the gritty stone floor of a prison or a dungeon. "I don't know what I would do if something happened to you."

Alistair pulls the covers down and slides into the bed, assuming the same position as Brand had.

Something _had_ happened to her.

"I'm sorry that I killed him, Alistair..." regret echoed in this confession, as if admitting to this was worst than taking a man's life. "He deserved to die, but I don't think I should have been the one to do it."

"Leliana told me that he left you no choice," it wasn't what he wanted to be talking about, because she was still cold in his arms and there was no way that reliving the afternoon would do anything to help with _that_. "You didn't do anything wrong...although I can't help but think Anora would have been better off staying locked up wherever he had her."

"Don't you mean _we_ would be better off?" Tears would come later, but at that moment she'd sounded different- not quite normal but closer to it than before. It had been reassuring.

_It shouldn't have been reassuring_. Alistair feels the cool of the pillow pressed against his cheek and counts all the ways he could have done just that one conversation differently...what could _differently_ have done to change the days ahead of _that_ Brand and _that_ Alistair?

_Everything_. His head hums even as he slips towards a fitful slumber, one hand drawn to the empty space next to him that suddenly seems terribly representative of his entire life _but it doesn't have to be like this forever_.

"It's pretty awful now," he's talking to himself, but also the ghosts of him and the woman he'd loved once upon a time in this very bed, and he wants to be reassuring because there is an ache of _it was my fault, too_ that he cannot ignore. But he's cold and alone and the best he can muster before all goes black is a quiet snort and, "At least Anora isn't here to make things even harder this time."

* * *

He returns with a buzz, the few hours of sleep not enough to ease the weight of memory and his own expectations. Eyes gritty, he blinks against the muted light that pushes its way half-heartedly through the windows, the visible slice of sky a wholly unwelcoming pale gray that does everything to make the noise in his head into a physical presence that presses against the edges of his skull and stays...pressed.

Something had roused him from slumber, a familiar boom that had jolted him a hundred times before...

_Whattya mean you've never tossed a kitten? No wonder I saw her sniffing around the little redhead. Trust me, boy, nothing good can come from _that_...heh. Unless they let you watch._

_Just drink the damn ale, son. And __don't look so sodding nervous. If I wanted a flat-chested blond, you sure wouldn't be my first choice. And besides, you seem like the type who would prefer a nice glass of _wine_ before letting a guy like me get under your armor._

"The last time I was here, I didn't have a care in the world," Oghren's penetrating voice was so clear Alistair would almost swear the dwarf was standing at the foot of his bed and not on the other side of a castle wall.

"Oh, no worries, riiiiiight," this was Anders, muffled but also unmistakable. "Nothing but a Blight and the possibility of being _hanged_ for _treason_."

"Eh. Someone else's problems," the shrug was plain in Oghren's voice, as was a note of wistfulness. "These days, I've got to deal with the wife-"

"That you don't live with."

"And a little girl who is going to be the death of me before she's even old enough to think about boys."

"Like Felsi doesn't have Delyn on lockdown _already_."

"By my lumpy ass, mage. Don't you know when to be quiet and let a man wallow?"

"Of course I do," these words rang with triumph. "That I choose to not refrain in your presence has nothing to do with what I _know_."

"When's Zevran due to show up? I think I have a job for him."

Even through the door, the affection in the men's banter is clear, and this was something Alistair had not been anticipating. Despite himself, he'd always liked the dwarf and it was just so _weird_ that Oghren was something else that had been part of who Alistair was _before_ that was now readapted and rearranged to fit comfortably with someone else.

He springs from the bed, gathering his cast off clothing as he goes and pulling them on even while he moves towards the door where his boots were left askew.

_These are Anders' boots, actually_. His brow constricts in thought as he examines them. Despite their sturdy construction, Ferelden from the deerskin pulls to the solid, worn soles, there were small flourishes and details that marked them as being expertly crafted, and probably worth a pretty copper.

They were the nicest boots Alistair had worn since he'd left Ferelden and, for some reason, this realization stings a little and seeing the way Oghren's eyes widen with surprise when he joins the dwarf and the mage in the corridor outside of his room hurts, too. The last time Oghren had seen him Alistair had carried the injuries of his skirmish with Brand, broken jaw and purple bruised eyes, and was surrounded in the lingering fog of furious confusion and years spent trying to drink himself into oblivion.

"What, did you think you were the only one who could clean up his act?" Alistair is taken aback at the words as he says them, but even more so is how...good-humored he they sound.

Anders' eyebrow goes up and something like respect registers across his face while Oghren responds with a snort.

"Trust you to show me up," Oghren's posture straightens, his dark cloak falling away to reveal a fine silk tunic worn with clear pride, a silvery white griffin embroidered on a deep blue background. For a second, Alistair's brain fumbles with another image- Oghren in his corner of camp, his hands free from flasks and tankards and weapons, his hands empty and his face blank. It was an all too brief, and rare, moment of _quiet_, but the solitude was clearly quite familiar to the warrior. So many of them had lost their families, or what they called family, before and during the Blight. Only Oghren had been left behind by his, abandoned as worthless and trying his damndest to live down to the image of himself that Orzammar had reflected back at him in his final months and days below.

_Pride has made him a new man. He has a place and a title and he's changed himself to be someone who deserves it, instead of hanging on to an Oghren that was easy to leave behind, an Oghren that was a burden and not worthy of the faith Brand has placed in him ._

"I have nothing on you, yet," Alistair speaks honestly, the words ground out slowly. Implied is an _and there's an excellent chance I never will_ and a moment that is quickly turning syrupy is saved by Oghren's unwavering and implacable sense of impropriety.

"Don't make me blush, sweetheart. You know I'm helpless against a handsome man and empty flattery."

"Who _isn't_?" Brand's voice interrupts them and all men look up simultaneously, Anders lips twisting into a smirk that is the closest thing to a smile that Alistair has ever seen on the mage's face, Oghren standing even straighter, his eyes brightening as much as her own, and Alistair takes in his companions and then takes in the floor, suddenly aware that he's an odd one out in this little group.

"So Oghren's here," Anders strides forward to take his place besides Brand. "Lemmy and Remiah are in the dining room with Nate and Sigrun, who is probably filling their heads with the perilous tales of our recent misadventures."

"They'll be so jealous." After offering her lover a wry smile, Brand directs the next bit towards Oghren. "I can see you practically radiating with envy, yourself."

"Aye. Nathaniel cornered me last night for a bit, told me a few things that made me want to wet myself," there is real concern beneath the gruff in Oghren's response. "We shouldn't have let you go, Brand. You shouldn't have left."

Somewhere some years earlier, Brand was bristling under Wynne's concerned gaze as the older woman assessed the injuries Brand had sustained the day before in Howe's dungeons. _You shouldn't have went without me. Morrigan's healing is fine for the short term, but..._

Brand had responded with a glare. With her brows down, her nostrils flaring and her jaw clenched tight, there was nothing of Brand the bemused one who was never _hostile_ to her companions.

Now Alistair expects a similar sneer, but Brand blushes instead, eyes darting guiltily.

"You're probably right," she means every syllable. "Fortunately for us, the Maker watches over drunken sailors and reckless ingrates, so I survived and managed to keep everyone else alive and together."

"For now at least," Anders' face goes unreadable and Oghren cocks his head in question. Brand, though, is unwilling to listen to an explanation for her partner's cryptic little interjection and, to Alistair's surprise, it's not Oghren or Anders that she came for.

"I have something I need to show you, Alistair," she indicates Eamon's office. "And I think it's best if we talk about it before we even _think_ about our next move."

Alistair hesitates for a moment. _This is not how the story went._ He remembers being on the side of the room, eyes roaming over book spines stamped in foreign languages, the letters sometimes familiar but in odd configurations. He somehow managed to always end up in that area of the office, where there was no hope of finding anything that he could read, or even pretend to read, while listening with growing dread to the murmurs of conversation between his former ward and his fellow Warden as they decided Ferelden's fate and, with it, his own.

"Are you going?" Anders is watching, bemused again and Alistair realizes that Brand has already left without him. "She's impatient, you know."

"And you've seen what she can do with a blade," Oghren pretends to stab Anders in the midsection and the mage staggers back against the wall, head lolling in defeat. "Would put a dent in your comeback, son."

"Yes, and that would be _bad_," Alistair leaves, his head shaking in mild amusement that does not dissipate until he's seated across from Brand where she has been waiting, settled behind Eamon's expansive desk, and he sees the gravity in her eyes, and something like _remorse_.

"I resented him," Brand cannot look directly at Alistair and he finds it strange. _What does she have to be ashamed of? _"I hated that he leaned so heavily on me while we were here. But I felt obligated to do whatever he asked...after the chance he was taking just supporting us. After I, you know, murdered his wife."

"I wouldn't call it _murder_," an image flashes across his vision, Isolde's back arched in pain seconds before she would collapse, lifeless, onto the stone floor of Redcliffe Castle. "She volunteered. We had no way of knowing if..."

"Stop," it's not a demand as much as it's a single syllable prayer. "You can't convince me that it's not in my cons column, and I don't need you to. I've been thinking about him, is all. I disliked him on _principle_ for what he did to you...for so many things. But he was always so supportive of me. Did you know he was at Fort Drakon when the Archdemon was killed?"

Alistair jerks at the revelation, uncertain whether he's ready to hear something like this. Brand, though, is ready to tell it.

"He got himself into a bit of a mess with a hurlock, but he just kept on going," she frowns. "It's one of the only things I really remember, to be honest. There were elves, and darkspawn, and..."

"Loghain?" This isn't as bad as Alistair thought it would be. "You can say his name, you know."

"_Can_ I?" Her lips curve upward and her head shakes ever so slightly. "I was going to say First Enchanter Irving. Anders is _less_ than fond of him, so he always gives me grief when I bring him up. Anyway...I never knew what to think about Eamon. Not during the Blight, not while I was married to his brother and certainly not after Teagan died. _This_ certainly has not helped things."

_This_ is a creased piece of parchment that Brand slides across the table, her eyes going up to meet his the moment his fingers brush against it. For a second parchment is the furthest thing from his thoughts as he searches for the woman he'd loved here when they were in this place before and he sees the mingling of purpose and exhaustion. He'd ignored that, the first time.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" He takes the missive into his sole possession and she clasps her now empty hands together so tightly the knuckles go white.

"Not really," nerves quiver her voice and the uncertainty in her demeanor pushes him to read the words scrawled in a neat, narrow column down the center of the page. He recognizes Eamon's hand, of course, and it doesn't take him long to work past the effusive apologies for the danger Brand and Alistair might currently be finding themselves in...

_There has been a shift in the political winds in Ferelden, a shift towards the sort of poisoned dagger machinations that we have been able to keep separate from our Landsmeet. It is not the natural evolution of a country, nor is it the fumblings of a country trying to find its way after war and Blight. This is a slow, deliberate greed that has found its way into the homes of the very families sworn to protect Ferelden from such things. _

_I have been fortunate enough to have the spies in my own household removed before they could engage me in any of their schemes parading as sage advice. But I am just one man. An Arl, yes, but as I discovered, and as you surely know, this is a far-reaching conspiracy. Although my actions may seem treasonous at their core, knowing Alistair was exiled by the sitting regent, it was my fervent hope that I could mend the ill will between Alistair and Queen Anora and ensure that Redcliffe would not fall far from the Guerrin family with my passing._

_After Teagan's death, I'd hoped that my nephew, Bryce, would inherit my title and my lands. They remain his birthright but as the heir to the throne, it is not feasible for him to be both king and arl. That is why I desired Alistair's return to Ferelden. He would not return as a figurehead for rebellion but as my heir and the heir to the Redcliffe Arling. I have drawn and signed papers that officially announce my intentions. It is a document that is to be presented in the event that Redcliffe has lost its Arl and whatever skirmish ensues to fill the vacancy reaches the brink of violence. This is assuming, of course, that Anora is still free enough of mind to see that now is not the time for increased instability. _

"Wait..." Alistair re-reads the last line, everything before pressing against it and making it difficult to comprehend _because this is fairly insane. Fairly_. "He thinks Anora is being...controlled?"

Brand's eyebrow shoots up.

"_That's_ what you're taking away from that? He named you his heir, Alis," her voice is neutral, but there's conflict in her eyes. "I know you said he was going to groom you, but this is official business."

"_Yes_," the pressing is a shove and he's imagining the days after Ostagar, when he couldn't fully grieve for a brother he hardly knew because with Cailan's death came a responsibility that he'd once been absolved of, but might be his yet again. He'd hated the idea of it, of being in charge and making decisions and what if people died because he screwed up? What if he was too confident, or too conservative, or listened to the wrong person or offended a visiting dignitary by making a hugely inappropriate joke or being, well, _himself_? "I never really wanted to be king. I never wanted to be responsible for a _country_ of people."

"But an arling would be acceptable?" Brand's expression turns wary, then confused... "Alistair, you're not...you _want_ this, don't you?"

"It's why I came back, Brand. Eamon was going to take me under, let me shadow him until the banns were comfortable with the idea of me. And, of course, Anora," Alistair allows the letter to slip back onto the desk. "The idea is terrifying for so many reasons, but for some reason it feels right."

"No," Brand shakes her head slowly. "One of the things that keeps me up at night is trying to figure out a way to keep Anora from reacting..._badly_ to your being back in Ferelden. I should be able to calm her down before she orders your execution, but I'm not going to be able to convince her or anyone else that you're ready to be an arl because you're _not_."

"I know," Alistair cannot nod emphatically enough. "I'm not ready...alone, at least. I have too much to learn, too much to prove. But _you_ don't, and it could help you in the long run."

"Ok," she's playing along, the letter ignored and there's an edge to her tone that is almost mocking, but it's tempered by genuine interest. "But isn't that the plan? Are you suggesting that you come along with me, learn the ropes, and then...take over once Anora is comfortable and everyone has forgotten...stuff?"

_Stuff_. Abandoning his country when it needed him. Hiding drunk in an inn while darkspawn destroyed people's homes, running when they came too close. It was all quite damning, he knew. His head still ached for a drink, even with the herbal concoction that Anders had been supplying him, and he knew he was still trying to come to terms with the things he'd done since he'd quit everything he'd known and abandoned everything he'd loved for vengeance.

"It could be years, Alistair," she speaks softly. "_Decades_, even. And we only have a couple left! I just don't know if it can be _done_. Or if we're the ones to do it."

"But what if it could?" He stands, his palms flat on the desk as he towers over her. "What do you have to lose, Brand? If you're Arlessa, you're in for the long haul. If you're just my seneschal, or advisor, there's a very good chance that you'd only have to do it for a few years, maybe five, maybe ten. But ten years is better than the rest of your life, isn't it? In ten years, you could leave it all behind. Go back to the Wardens, live the life you want but might never have otherwise."

"Alistair," she'd said his name so many times that morning, but this time is different. It is another small prayer, a _please stop because I can't bear to have my dreams undone _again. "Why would you even want to work with me? It's...Look. I know you're just trying to help, but there's no happy ending here and no amount of you stepping up _now_ is going to make people forget what you did _then_."

He pulls back from the desk like it has just stung him. Brand has turned away from him, her jaw defiance tight but something about her posture tells him that she's fighting something within herself and not him, necessarily.

And what she said was true. It would be hard for them to forget, it would be hard for him to even fake it at that first Landsmeet. He's a man who is good with a sword and...that's it. He's had no training in governance; all he _did_ know was gleaned from the things Brand had shared with him during the Blight and a few odd jobs abroad that placed him in close contact with foreign nobility. The latter was a particularly unflattering angle from which to view politics, but it _was_ fairly enlightening.

And not anything he'd be comfortable doing, if Ferelden was truly headed in that direction.

"Maybe you're right," he sinks into his chair, his palms pressing against his temples. "This still makes everything easier, doesn't it? I can just give up my claim to you under the guise of being a Grey Warden. It won't leave Loren much to hang onto, and it puts less pressure on you at the Landsmeet. So there's...that."

"There _is_ that," Brand leans back in her chair, arms across her chest as she regards him, frustration pulling the corners of her mouth back. "I showed you the letter because it was the right thing to do, not because I wanted you to take a hit for me. I assumed you'd just come to the whole 'this makes things easier' conclusion and not even consider the alternative. _I_ didn't even consider the alternative, and I've been looking for an alternative for _weeks_." She sighs and stares at the ceiling. "I'm trying to be realistic about the chances of you being supported by the Landsmeet, but I'm also not sure I can take something like this away from you if you want it. Not again."

_Not again_ hangs between them and Alistair keeps his gaze on the ground between his feet, the stone worn smooth by decades of traffic. There's something inside of him that is expanding, something itchy and uncomfortable. It's a feeling he's had before, one he used to joke off when he was younger, before Brand taught him how to bury such intangible discontent within her and, in her absence, he'd been forced find to find another method, one that took him to dark places and pulled him further and further away from what he could recognize as _Alistair_.

Now there's no recourse available to him but joking and that's not exactly doing things differently than he'd done them the first time.

"This is a second chance that I probably don't deserve," Alistair straightens in his chair. "I stood in that corner while you and Eamon made your plans, while you made your deal with Anora. Nobody took anything from me...I gave it away because it wasn't something I could stab or, you know, cover in cheese."

_So a little joke can't hurt._

Brand smiles at this, her features relaxing somewhat, although there is still traces of doubt that lingers between them.

"I guess all I want is the chance to _do_ something for a change, instead of letting others decide what I should do, or what they want to do with me," he leans forward to make this last pitch. "Just get me to Anora alive, and let me make my case."

"Your case," she nods. "Just let me talk to Anders first. I don't know how thrilled he's going to be with the idea of you and me running off to Redcliffe together, even if it is just a shot in the dark," uncertainty catches her voice. "You do realize this is just a shot in the dark, right? Unless Anora has suffered from a major head injury, and I'm talking full on decapitation here, you're not going to be named the anything of _anywhere_ unless it's the Dead of Deadtown."

"Eloquent, Brand" he holds tight to the swell of nervous pride that threatens to choke him up. "I am quite prepared to make an ass of myself. I've got plenty of practice, as you can imagine."

"You and me, both," her hands go to her face, and then she runs them over her hair, smoothing strands that had fallen fee from the loose braid that hangs down her back. "I guess the next thing we need to do is get Oghren into the loop and then...to business."

"To business," he likes the weight of those words on his tongue, the heft of purpose and responsibility solid as he tries not to think about the position he's just asked to be put into and the implications that they'd barely been able to address. To business, first. Then they could work out details, like did they _really_ want to work _together_ and how awkward would _that_ be?

_Or maybe it would be a second chance you don't deserve_...and the thought is put away quickly, mentally pocketed until he can deal with the soft feelings it evokes where soft feelings aren't supposed to be.

* * *

The Wardens are settled in the dining room, lamb flanks and parsley seasoned potatoes being consumed in between long draughts of Orlesian wine and fresh cider brought out especially for Alistair and Oghren. Oghren looks very much as though he could use a drink, and Alistair cannot blame him. The dwarf had been visibly unprepared to learn that he'd be receiving a promotion within the week and the reality of what he'd signed up for when he'd agreed to becoming Brand's second-in-command was just starting to settle on his broad and florid features.

Alistair has to wonder if there was any part of the dwarf's hesitance that _wasn't_ coming from a place of uncertainty in his own abilities when Brand wasn't supporting him in some capacity.

_She _is still concerned; it's etched in lines between her eyes and in the way that not even Anders periodically poking her shoulder or whispering conspiratorial things can ease them and Alistair remembers that the next hurdle is the highest. He is an exile and the woman who exiled him was not the forgiving or accommodating sort.

"An appointment is the proper way to do these things," her fingers trace a pattern on the linen tablecloth next to her half-empty plate. "But just showing up unannounced gives us an advantage."

"On the way _in_. They'll still have plenty of time to gather the guard to get us on the way _out_," Anders spears a hunk of lamb from Brand's plate and frowns thoughtfully while he chews. "Maybe we could invite her here?"

"That's..." a muscle jumps in Brand's jaw. "That's a good idea. But no."

"But _no_?"

"_No_."

"Oh, you and your unassailable _logic_. I can see where Bryce gets it from," the mage's eyes flutter upward and then come down to settle on Alistair before narrowing slightly. "You've turned a bit green, Alistair. Can't say it's a good look on _any_one."

He's about to explain in the most obtuse and awkward way he can why Brand might object to the queen's presence here in Eamon's estate, but they're interrupted by the groaning of the main doors and the metallic crunching and jangling of chainmail and an unmistakable voice that snaps out orders to men who will die with, "Yes, Your Majesty" on the edges of their tongues.

"Anders," Brand's face is so bloodless that even her lips are ashen. "Did _you_ do this?"

"What? No!" Like everyone else in the room, he's slumped down in his chair, as if being slumped down makes a person invisible, and he speaks at a low hiss. "Do you think I'd _be_ here I'd known she was coming?"

"I'll take that as a welcome, Ser _Mage_," Queen Anora dominates the dining hall doorway. Despite her compact stature, to Alistair she might as well be a full-sized golem, carved of stone and with eyes that burned like cold fire right through him.

"You remember Alistair, yes?" Brand was on her feet, positioning herself between Anora and the queen's quarry. "It's ironic, really. We were just planning our visit to the palace."

"Oh, cut the shit, Brand," Anora's mouth presses into a hard line and her brow drops dangerously low as she spares no amount of venom for her next command: "I have ten armed men in the courtyard and _you_ have exactly one minute to tell me why I shouldn't execute that..._man_ on the premises."


	48. No

"_Execute?_" Brand's feet moved apart, strengthening her stance but what did she think she was going to do? She couldn't attack a queen, especially not when said queen was already glowering up at her, dark eyes tumultuous and lips twisting as they held back _Treason_.

Such an awful word, _treason_. It meant death, or dungeons, or bounties placed upon heads and only professionals or the dangerously desperate were willing to risk their lives for a _bounty_, like the refugees in Lothering who attacked with glorified cutlery and Brand had known for certain what life was going to be like as long as she was branded a traitor of the crown and she'd never done _anything_ against Anora's crown-

"Um...Brand?" Anders popped his head up, his expression clearly trying to communicate that _now_ was _not_ the time to get reflective or random.

"Do you not care?" Anora's scowl deepened and there was suspicion in her words, as if Brand's hesitation was a strategy and not blind panic over the fact that Alistair might _die_, and just when he seemed to be getting good at living again.

"Of _course _I care," Brand winced inwardly at the way _that_ came out, like _don't be stupid_. But _don't be stupid_ worked equally well for Brand _you know what you have to say, you and Fergus figured this part out and Alistair knows his role, too_. "You know I don't like to play the Grey Warden card when I don't have to."

"He _left_ the Wardens, Commander," Anora's hand waved in dismissal, as Brand figured it would. She didn't think she'd ever had a conversation with Anora, personal or professional, in which the queen relented without argument. "I seem to recall you were there when that happened."

_That's a low blow_. Brand's stomach tightened and there was an accompanying burning sensation at the back of her head as a memory, hazy for so long, wavered into focus and Alistair's eyes had been so gleaming cold as he announced he was leaving that they were more like mirrors of anguished rage and Brand had been numb to everything at that point, the wrong words coming out automatically because she was just a Grey Warden and sentencing a man to die was suddenly beyond her.

But the same reasoning that could justify Loghain Mac Tir's conscription could keep his daughter from claiming Alistair's life the same way she'd claimed his birthright.

"Wardens don't recognize deserters, Anora," Brand spoke as calmly as Riordan had at the Landsmeet, so calmly that what should have struck her as madness had actually worked to change her mind. "Once you join the Wardens, you are always a Warden. It's an inescapable sentence, and one that _cannot_ be overturned by any ruling monarch."

_You _know_ that._

Anora's posture shifted into something less combative, her small frame relaxing slightly. Brand could see, however, that the lowering of her shoulders was offset by the way her chin lifted in defiance and she was not entirely convinced that the situation had been settled.

"And you can assure me that his motivation for returning to Ferelden was to, in fact, rejoin the order?" Her head cocked slightly and there was passion in her gaze, the normal cool abandoned for something she reserved for people like Brand, who might be flustered by her imperiousness but knew that she was human beneath it all and could be swayed in different ways. "I've enough to contend with...enough pressure and instability from the bannorn, without having to worry a possible rebellion. Give me your word, Brand."

Also low. Brand closed her eyes for a second, considering carefully where she stood, literally and in a metaphorical sense. She and Anora were not friends, nor was their relationship adversarial. They were women whose lives could have been interchanged, had Cailan refused the marriage arrangements made before he could walk. They were both the daughters of teyrns, both raised for their country even if the Cousland approach had been far more gentle than Mac Tir's. In the days after the Landsmeet and in the weeks after the Blight had ended, the women had come to acknowledge their similarities, and the fact that they were powerful women in a world where powerful women were sometimes met with skepticism.

And Brand respected what Anora had managed to do as queen, even though she sometimes felt that there had to be more that could be done for, say, the city elves that had been suffering far more than their human counterparts. Brand knew, too, that the respect was mutual despite Anora's misgivings about Brand's less than orthodox approach to just about _everything_.

Like now, when a lie would suffice and most politicians would just go with it. Brand knew that Alistair had no designs on the throne and would never so much as endorse a rebellion in his name. But...he hadn't come back to join the Wardens, and if they were going to use Eamon's papers to help facilitate the passing of Redcliffe to Alistair, Anora might realize she'd been mislead, which would make her angry and the last thing Brand needed was for Anora to have a reason to _hate_ her.

_That_ never turned out well for _anyone_.

"Eamon brought him back," Brand's voice was low and even. "After I told him of our arrangements for Bryce, he decided to name Alistair his heir. We have papers and-"

"No," Anora shook her head and her voice was serrated once again. "That will never happen. And what of your plans, Commander? Teyrn Fergus told me that you would replace Eamon as Arl of Redcliffe."

"That was before we knew what Eamon wanted," Brand had to fight to get this out without gritting her teeth in frustration. She'd expected Anora to balk, but there was no room for argument in that _No_, and the queen seemed on the verge of re-ordering the execution. "We have a plan, though."

"A plan?" Anora strode forward, the space between the two women closing so quickly Brand barely had time to register Alistair moving to stand beside her. "Does this plan involve the bannorn who are still so obsessed with the legend of Calenhad that they're willing to forget what happened during the Blight and push him up the ranks?"

"_That_ will never happen," the way Alistair said this was a reminder of how he'd been not more than an hour ago in Eamon's office. Resolute. Brand was still impressed by the things he'd said, despite her apprehension at what people would say and, more importantly, what _Anders_ would say. And think. And _feel_.

Anders was watching her now, his interest sparked by _we have a plan_ and she'd wanted to talk to him first, because even the idea would not sit well with him, let alone the fact that she was considering it a valid option. Or she had been, before Anora's _No_ had gone up like a wall.

"It wouldn't? You were a Grey Warden before, and a commoner at that, and there was still support at the Landsmeet even _before_ Brand got involved," forged silverite was softer than Anora's voice as she spat this out. "You are a Theirin and there are those who will always be blinded by your...pedigree. All it would take is one unpopular law or ruling on my part and _you_ start looking like a good idea."

"I don't want to be king," Alistair glanced over at Brand, his eyes shadowed with desperation. "I would never allow myself to be put forward. You have my word."

"Like I had your word that you'd leave and never come back?" The heat was returning, only it was resentment melded with anger and a rare amount of worry. "Or did your years in the gutter, drinking yourself blind between jobs, make you forget your parting shot to the Landsmeet?"

"Shut _up_, Anora!" Fiona's voice was like a shock of lightning, and the queen's eyes widened in response as she swiveled to confront the elven mage who'd all but exploded out of her chair and into the conversation, and Fiona's eyes were so much like Alistair's now, the same desperation and frustration, that Brand was certain Anora would see it, too, and _know_.

"Fi_ona_," Brand glared at her fellow Warden, trying to silently express how wholly they did _not_ need to piss off Anora, but the other woman was just as wholly unconcerned with whom they were dealing.

"It's a second chance, Brand," everything was steady steel and Brand, despite really not wanting to see Fiona imprisoned, stood down. Like Alistair had a right to make his case, to be someone in his own life, Fiona deserved _this_ opportunity as well.

It was a heart attack, but it was only fair. The last time Brand had insisted on being in control of a showdown with Anora, things hadn't gone so well for those she cared about.

"I know you," Anora had ceased being offended at Fiona's order and now had a knot of confusion marring her brow. "You're the one the First Warden sent down after the Blight."

"Yes," Fiona must have been doing something subtly magical; as she moved towards where Brand and Anora stood practically toe to toe, Anora began inching back and Brand's own skin prickled a bit despite her being used to and largely comfortable with such energy. "I was stationed at Weisshaupt for several years."

"I am very close to ordering your return, Warden, or turning you _all_ out of Ferelden for insubordination," she glanced back at Brand. "_All_ of you."

"What if I gave you what you wanted?" Fiona interjected quickly, her voice low and just slightly conspiratorial.

"I very honestly doubt you could do that," Anora's head dipped slightly in interest, undermining her words. "Do you even know what I want?"

"Security," Fiona's arms went across her chest and the air around them went back to normal, normal being tense but not slightly electric and unnatural. "You want to do what's right for your country, but you're losing control. Maybe you trusted the wrong person..."

"I trusted no one and I am _still_ in control" her lips curled into a sneer or resolution. "Tell me now, Warden. I have a man who is a threat to Ferelden's stability standing in front of me asking to placed steps away from my throne and he has the most influential family in Ferelden behind him. It is my job to see these things for what they are. It has won me few friends, but I am standing where a lesser man would have fallen."

"If that really were the case, you'd not be here today," Brand attempted to keep surprise out of the words, but it was there. "You'd summon us to the palace, or come in and take what you wanted instead of asking questions. Are you in danger, Anora?"

With a subtle wavering of conviction, Anora blinked at what she probably considered condescension rather than concern. But then she returned to her anger, unwilling to admit what her hesitation affirmed.

"What do you have to offer me, Ser Mage? Speak quickly, before I regret not coming in and taking what I wanted."

"I can offer you what you need to dispute Alistair's claim to the throne, should anyone attempt to put him forward during your reign," Fiona's eyes fell shut and Brand detected the faintest quiver in the elf's voice, the tiniest pulse of uncertainty that this wouldn't backfire horrifically. However, when her eyelids came up, there was nothing in her gaze that betrayed her nerves as she named her single condition, "But this knowledge cannot be abused, and without my support it amounts to little more than hearsay."

Stomach lurching, Brand shifted, almost unconsciously, towards Alistair. He was breathing harder than he needed to be, each inhalation a small gasp as if he found the air surrounding them _physically_ heavy with tension. Part of her wanted him to interject, to tell Fiona to keep their secret _secret_, and part of her thought to do it herself, to save her friend from saying what amounted to "Alistair is my son, and therefore sullied by my blood."

But Alistair had been spared his heritage his entire life, to save him from expectations and ridicule, and it had done him nothing but harm. And if what Anora saw as threat could be negated by the entire truth of his parentage, then perhaps they could get out of this unscathed.

"Let me hear what you have, Warden," Anora spoke briskly, curiosity tightening her features and the tiniest bit of hope glittering in her cool sapphire eyes. "But remember that I must do what is best for my country, and I cannot guarantee anything."

"No, of course not. You are only the queen, after all," a bitter laugh punctuated this and Brand remembered Fiona's expression when she'd confessed to her affair with King Maric, the shifting tides of respect and resentment in the way her brows tightened and relaxed, and how she seemed forever caught between an old grudge against anyone with power and a newfound understanding that power did not automatically mean corruption, or even freedom. While she cared for Maric, she was clearly uneasy with what he represented and now she was barely able to hide her contempt for the woman who sat on his throne. Thankfully, she kept her part of the exchange free from anything but the barest of truth:

"Alistair is my son. Elf-blooded, half-Orlesian and his limited ability to produce an heir comes with a significant chance of that heir being a mage and, thus, unable to inherit."

Brand's throat tightened automatically at this last bit, and she fought to keep her expression from showing panic, especially since the entire room, save Anders and Fiona, had turned their attention o Alistair _and_ her, for some reason.

"Oh," it was as close as Brand had ever seen Anora be to dumbstruck. "I can't say that I see the resemblance."

"You wouldn't," Fiona leaned heavily on the back of the empty chair next to her, suddenly seeming impossibly worn. "When a human and an elf have a child together, it is always human. And even were that not the case, I've been told that Theirins have a tendency to look like Theirins."

"I see," Anora was watching Alistair now, eyes bright with newfound interest although it wasn't good-natured scrutiny, but the look of a hunter who has discovered a weakness in its prey and through _that_ has regained the upper hand. "I never believed that Maric was the type of man to dally with maids, and I always wondered why my father was so willing to press that lie. This makes sense."

"I'm glad that _you_ think so," Alistair sounded winded as he amended his comment."Your majesty."

Anora didn't seem to care about his attempt at propriety as she considered the new information, nor did she seem nearly as tense as she'd been since she'd stormed into the dining hall calling for Alistair's head.

"_Please_ tell me you're not going to execute anyone, Anora," Brand leaned away from Alistair so she could steal a glance at him. He definitely wasn't seeing any reason to relax, his shoulders high and his jaw tight. "Besides, we have other things we need to discuss."

"Yes," Anora folded her hands neatly against her flat stomach and for the first time Brand noticed that her fingers, normally adorned with an ostentatious array of gold and gems, were bare save for a signet ring that bore the Mac Tir family crest. "I will accept Alistair's presence on one condition- he is to remain in your custody, Commander."

"My custody? As a Warden? But I'm not..." Brand's eyebrow shot up in consternation. "What about Redcliffe? It's either Alistair, Bann Loren or _me_."

"Of those three, only you are acceptable," Anora scowled slightly. "Loren's guard is good for thuggish pursuits and intimidation and he can work the banns, but he relies far too heavily on aligning himself with the right people and has no idea how to stand on his own. Alistair knows nothing about governance, but he is well-educated and well-trained. With my support, you will win your bid and Alistair can join you in whatever capacity you see fit. He'll be your responsibility."

"Anora," Brand's tongue darted out from between her lips, which were only slightly drier than her mouth and Anders was staring again, his own mouth opened in disbelief. They'd not discussed their future _together but apart_extensively, but it _had_ been discussed and Alistair was never supposed to be a part of things. "We were thinking that Alistair could be Arl, and I'd be his seneschal for a few years. With these documents from Eamon, we could justify it to the Landsmeet and..."

"No."

_Fuck._

Brand touched her forehead, the smallest tell of disappointment for something she'd not realized she'd been truly hoping for since Alistair had suggested it in Eamon's study. The thought that there might be a light at the end of the tunnel after all, that if she just held on for a few more years then _maybe_ she could grab Bryce and Anders and disappear into a life that was as close to normal as a retired hero-noblewoman and her two apostates could have…she was foolish to have given it any consideration.

"I assume that you have chosen Oghren as your successor, per our discussions earlier," Anora pushed on and Brand was forced to get caught up once again in the breakneck speed that Anora was taking things. "There might be some raised eyebrows at the Landsmeet."

"Oghren raises eyebrows everywhere he goes," Anders swiveled neatly around in his chair, rising in one elegant movement, his focus on Anora and Brand didn't like the way _that_ made her feel. "And he's not exactly _thrilled_ at the prospect of being an arl. Not to step all over any earlier discussions, but I would not be opposed to taking the position myself."

"No," Anora added a little more to _this_ no, a bit of _are you insane?_on top of the established _never going to happen_.

"I was expecting that," Anders continued, feigning obliviousness to the way Anora was not terribly amused by his persistence _or_ the way he was _looking at her_. "But I'm well-read, I speak several languages and I've observed the proceedings of court countless times since I became a Grey Warden."

"You've observed the women in court, Warden. That is _hardly_ the same thing," Anora was unyielding.

"I would do a good job," there was nothing of the showman in this assertion, just unvarnished sincerity. Brand's lips pressed tight, and she blinked back the bright bite of tears that were threatening to fall. She'd not been lying when she told him the day before that he'd make a decent arl, but she'd never guessed he'd ask for it. It made sense, though. He'd have more control over Bryce's education and training, and with a title...

"Then it is unfortunate that you are a mage," Anora allowed this out with a small amount of sympathy. "Let the First Warden appoint you, if it is his will, but I cannot risk an Exalted March on Ferelden because I gave an apostate such power. Until I hear otherwise, Oghren will represent Amaranthine at the Landsmeet." She turned her gaze onto the dwarf, who'd been watching the exchange with bemused horror and a smidgen of hope. "I recommend that you bring Varel with you, at least until you're comfortable with the proceedings."

"Aye," Oghren shifted, obviously uncomfortable on Anders' behalf. Anders, however, was not around to see the minute show of support. He'd left the moment Anora's attention had shifted, his own focus _away from here_and he'd not even glanced back as he swept out of the dining hall.

Brand felt herself leaning forward; her automatic response to Anders leaving was to follow him, to maybe soften the blow of two decisions that struck him where he hurt. To reassure him that she'd never meant for him to be blindsided by anything, or have his capabilities dismissed because he was a mage.

"Did you have to put it that way, Anora?" Brand caught herself before she could gain any momentum, shifting back into resignation. "He was trying to make this easier."

Anora's gaze flitted back to Brand and this time the curiosity there was of a less executive nature.

"Easier for whom, I wonder?"

It was an acknowledgement, and for the first time since Anora had barged into their dinner, Brand wondered how she'd come to know so much. Not about Anders, of course. Brand was realizing every day how very little they'd done to dissuade anyone else from thinking they were merely comrades. Anders was almost always with her when she traveled to Denerim, usually watching Bryce while she met with Anora or Shianni in the Alienage and then slipping out in the evening to visit taverns and the interesting quarry within. But he always came back early and empty-handed, funny little stories masking his lack of success…

"Fergus told me that Bryce would be squired with the Wardens," Anora's voice cut through Brand's racing thoughts and she jerked back to awareness. "I assume that Anders will have his hands full with that."

_Fergus_. He was in the city already, and had apparently gone straight to _Anora_. Unable to hide her annoyance, Brand snorted softly.

"Did he tell you about Alistair, too?"

"No," Anora tilted her head. "I am paranoid enough to have eyes all over the city, and your friend is right when she says that Theirins have a tendency to look like Theirins."

_It will be like marrying his twin._

"Of course…your guard. We weren't exactly sneaky, either," Brand remembered making that decision well outside of the city. No use looking like they had something, or someone, to hide. From anyone. "What else did my brother share?"

This darkened the mood considerably, Anora's lips twisting into a sneer and her nose going up in disdain.

"Enough that I know what I must do next, and that I have little enough time to act," her features smoothed and she turned on her heel with unexpected ferocity. "Which is why I must return to the palace, Commander," she paused just past the doorway, and offered a parting shot. "Your safety is important, but so is my own. Never forget that. Brand."

At her last syllable, the Queen of Ferelden was consumed by her guard, a wall of gleaming armor going up between her and Brand as they escorted her out with as little ceremony as with which she'd arrived.

Brand should have turned to say something to her Wardens, to comfort Alistair or Fiona, to reassure Oghren. Instead, she acted upon her earlier impulse and allowed her feet to take her to the Warden that mattered the most.

_And it's a good thing I'm retiring, with biases like this._

* * *

He was in one of the small courtyards that were wedged between the mansion and the city walls, this one barely more than a shaded corner with a bench and matching fountain. Both the bench and the fountain had obviously spent years in a more open spot, the stone sun-bleached and all the edges eroded could clearly make out the mabari motif if you looked for it. Three mabaris crouching in the ground and balancing the seat across their heads, a pack in mid-run that made up the back…

Anders was at the fountain, running his fingers along the worn lip of a long dry basin and leaving behind a gleaming trail of ice.

"I think it's cold enough already," she glanced down at her plain linen tunic and wool trousers, wishing she'd grabbed a cloak; the crisp autumn air had already leached what little heat they'd managed to retain from inside. Anders wore something very similar, although he had ways of keeping himself warm if he really needed to. At the moment, he was pre-occupied with making ice. "So…not talking?"

He remained silent, and only the near imperceptible twitching of his head wanting to look in her direction gave away that he'd noticed her at all.

"Anora knows that Bryce is staying at the Vigil. I didn't tell her about the whole…anything. She's fine with you being his tutor, though," Brand hesitated, uncertain whether this would be something that would quell his anger or encourage the old bitterness that she'd never been able to eradicate in all her years of _I am so lucky that you're a mage. _

"And here I thought she wanted to avoid an Exalted March on Ferelden," his voice went into Anora's at the last bit. "I could fill her little heir's head with all sorts of mischief, coach him to raise a rebellion the moment that crown touches his hair." Anders whipped around to face Brand, his eyes narrowed and slightly menacing. If she didn't know him, she'd be genuinely nervous. As it was, she was merely upset that he was upset. "Can't you picture it, love? It would probably be the most interesting thing to happen in that palace since you wiped the floor with Loghain."

"I took her to task for that," Brand leaned against the city wall, the day exhausting despite her relative inactivity.

"Oh, to _task_," Anders mimicked her posture, taking a place next to her but still several inches away. "I'm surprised you had any spine left after using so much on _Alistair_."

"Because trying to keep someone from being executed is _totally the same_ as being annoyed that you didn't get a position that you weren't even offered!" Brand dug her shoulders back against the stone, enjoying the way it scratched at her skin and relieved a bit of the frustration that was rapidly building inside her chest. _You know what he wants you to say, so just _say_ it._

But she _couldn't_, because Anders was back in front of her, eyes wounded but angry.

"And why was I never offered that position? If you really think I'd be so good at it."

"What? Andraste's ass what kind of question is that?" She felt her lips twist down at the corners. Anders had never wanted that much responsibility. It would take him away from his relatively low-stress job of talking about magic, and being magical, and doing pretty much anything he wanted to do. Besides, "Oghren has actually led troops before. And, including the Blight, he has seniority._And_, most importantly, you weren't even _in the Wardens_ when I promoted Oghren. Surely you can't find a big conspiracy _there_."

"I'm not looking for a big conspiracy, Brand!" This time he was aghast as well as angry. Teagan's death was the only reason why she'd named Oghren as her co-Commander, to keep the operations at the Vigil and within the Wardens running smoothly. Had Anders _been_ there... "I don't know what I'm looking for."

The quiet way he said this, as if he were talking to himself and not to her at all was like forgetting how to breathe. For several long, black, seconds Brand could only choke on what he could possibly mean by _that_.

"What do I have to hope for here?" He was back at the fountain, the ice now spreading up the throat of the howling mabari that would, in decades past, be venting water at the sky. "I wouldn't be surprised if you told me tomorrow that you're taking Bryce with you to Redcliffe, and that Alistair will teach him to be the good little warrior that he should be."

"Anders, stop it," Brand blinked rapidly, trying to ignore the way it felt like he was coating _her_ in ice, from the inside and starting at her stomach. "If you keep doing this I'm not going to be able to breathe and you know this is _not_ what I want."

For several minutes, Anders kept his silence. Brand watched in agony as he began chipping at the fountain, his bitten down fingernails too short to find a way in and, in his growing frustration, he gave up, his hands going hazy orange and Brand could feel the heat coming off of him from her place by the wall. Then it was rivulets running down to the once empty basin and they tracked like the tears that stung her cheeks.

"I hate that I can't be with you," he stopped burning and dropped his freshly extinguished hands. "And it's not fair that _he _gets to be."

"But not like _that_," her heart was making low, muffled noises in her ears now. She'd experienced this before, in battle and during horrible moments when her mind left her and the very thing she should be doing _chasing down Alistair, running away from the Redcliffe Chantry and the patient betrothed therein, winding my arms around you so you know how very much I wish things could be different and I meant to _tell_ you first _was not getting done_. _

"_Yet_," he pushed away from the fountain and took a seat on the bench, his long legs stretched out in front of him. It was a casual pose, a resigned posture and his entire _face_ was an impenetrable mask of resignation. "Just don't _ever_ say anything like it's _unfortunate that you're a mage_. I'm very much aware of that fact."

It would have been easy to take a few steps across the small courtyard, to force him back to her. She could kiss his forehead, his eyelids, his nose. She could tell him all the ways that him being who he was, _Anders, mage, friend, comrade, lover _had saved her and saved her and _saved her_.

But that was all she could say, all she could do. _I love you_ and _thanks_. Despite everything they'd been through, when it came to what really mattered they were as restricted as they'd been that evening he'd walked her and a newborn Bryce to her bedroom and all she was allowed was nothing _close_ to what she _wanted_ to do, which was to commit to him with her _life_ the way she was now committed to Redcliffe and Ferelden. But what had been merely improbable before was _impossible _now. Officially so, what with talk of Exalted Marches.

Brand walked away without another word, her chest still tight and her ears full of that damnable noisy silence. She doubted that she'd ever be able to tell him the reason _why_ she'd been open to Alistair's plan, because wasn't that just as painful? One final hope for something resembling normalcy blocked by a curt, dismissive _no._

_Don't think about it, Brand. You have other things to do, other people to help. Check on Bryce, make sure Fiona's not fled to the Free Marches, make sure Oghren hasn't run to the nearest cask of ale, find Alistair and..._

"Hey!" The hand caught her elbow and she realized with a jolt that she had made it inside and was alone in a narrow corridor that only the servants used. It was long and shadowed, torches slung intermittently along the stone walls and only half were lit. The only other light filtered through highs set windows, but it was enough to catch an edge of straw pale blond that showed itself beneath a black hood and the hard gleam of golden eyes beneath heavy lids.

"I have been looking all over for you, my dear," Zevran tilted his chin up and the hood fell away from his face. "How would you feel about some good, old-fashioned bloodshed?"

Whatever had been dulling her senses in the yard disappeared at the sight of the assassin's smile, a flash of danger in the dim.

"Whose blood are we talking? I'm on strict orders to keep as much of mine in me as I can."

Zevran laughed, his head thrown back and Brand felt his slender fingers press affectionately where he still held her elbow. It was familiar and for a second she could almost forget they weren't six years past, before the Landsmeet, and everything was going to be _fine_.

"Oh, of _that _I have no doubt," he shrugged and dropped her arm carefully. "Then you will be pleased to know that, within ten minutes, the largest number of Ignacio's operatives in the city of Denerim will have been extinguished."

"What?" Things were unsteady again. "That's..."

"Sudden? Unexpected?_Awesome_?" He twitched his shoulders again. "I have been working very hard, Brandelyn. You have no idea what Zevran can accomplish when he wants something badly enough."

"Apparently not," she drew a sharp breath. "I thought that this would take longer? I thought you were waiting."

Zevran chuckled warmly, as if they were discussing a favorite childhood pet or romantic conquest. He looked somehow even older than the last time she'd seen him, only weeks ago, but there was an odd ebullience about him now. Brand was one to revel grimly in victory, if she was able to revel at all. Zevran, though, was a cheerful winner.

"Things have fallen into place magnificently these last few weeks. I think they did not anticipate that you would be so _very_ hard to kill," he paused, bemusement touching his lips. "I should really be thanking Anders, I suppose. No doubt he is the one responsible for your current state of living."

"Indeed," Brand's heart ached slightly at the mention and then shook off her sadness. _This is excellent news, Brand. It seems impossible, but this whole thing might very well be over, without you really doing anything at all._ "Like being washed ashore."

"Pardon?"

"I'm sorry, I just...I haven't _done_ anything. I planned on political intrigue and Landsmeets and taking on assassins in dark corridors. Some kind of action. But everything is resolving around me and it's turned out that all I've done is get caught up in a current that was headed towards dry land."_ But it could be over. Over. _Done_. Isn't that something good? Resolution?_ "It's weird when things fall into place, is all. It seems unlikely, but..."

"Is it the lack of action that has you disappointed, or is it something else that has made you so sad?" This was asked with genuine concern, Zevran observing her with disconcerting intensity.

_This is not what I want._

"Lack of action, definitely," the urge to vent what felt like a lifetime of regret died in her throat. She would keep this to herself- the fact that any end would be bittersweet considering what she would be losing once things really _were _over. "Bargaining with Anora has a tendency to make a person long for a few rounds of ten to one combat. Better odds, at least."

Silence greeted this joke, when Brand was expecting at least a snort for her efforts. Instead, Zev grabbed her arm again, low on the wrist and his grasp was tight, desperate.

"What?"

"You went to see Anora?" He spoke at a volume barely above breath.

"No, she was here. You just missed her, in fact," Brand leaned away, her nerves snapping to attention as the elf's mouth disappeared into a thin, white line. "I take it this is a bad thing?"

"The worst," he began moving down the hallway, tugging her behind. "How long would it take for you to prepare?"

"Prepare?" Brand thought not about her armor and preferred weapons, which were being attended to by one of the local smiths, but of her wounded arm and uncertain strength. She could wear the finest plate and wield the sharpest blades in Thedas, but she could never call herself prepared if she couldn't stand in a fight. "Not long, but my gear is in the other direction."

Zevran automatically turned them around and they moved towards the armory at a run, Zevran shouting for help once they were inside the main hall.

"We must get to the palace as quickly as we can," he all but shoved her into the armory. "I _knew _I should have tried my hardest to make this whole thing seem like her idea."

"Zev!" Brand stumbled away and then turned to confront him. "What's going on? Have you been working with Anora?"

"Of course I have, Brandelyn," he smirked darkly. "I needed information and access, and she needed protection. Both of us needed many people to die. It was perfect. But now..."

"She's gone off plan?" She hurried to the trunk that held her secondary armor, trying to control her shaking hands. All she needed was for Anora to be assassinated and the last place for her to be seen alive was here, threatening Alistair and the Wardens.

"Yes. And, more distressingly, my measures to prevent her from _going _off plan have failed. She was supposed to remain hidden until I had confronted Ignacio. Now she is headed right to him, and with men who might no longer serve her best interests."

"Dammit, Anora," her hands were slick with sweat and having difficulty with the simplest tasks, but she didn't slow down and she didn't let the steady ache of her arm dissuade her from committing to what had to happen next. "I really fucking hate rescuing her."

"I know, I know," Zevran was remarkably calm given how dangerous things had suddenly become. "I promise you, if she tries to betray you or turn you over to someone who will hurt you, she will receive at least a stern warning from me, and probably a nice shock on the ass from Anders."

Without acknowledging his remark, Brand carefully sheathed a pair of silverite swords that Fergus had packed for her.

"Or we can go alone, not a problem. I will have men there, anyway," small pause. "Is there no one you would take with you?"

Brand thought about it for a few seconds, but not much longer. If something happened and the Crows failed, who knew what would happen or how quickly. And Anora had been here, which made _here_ an even larger target and a more dangerous place to be. _Maker, I can't let them get Bryce again, but moving him isn't an option, either. The Wardens will have to protect him, and I can deal with the queen on my own and take the blame if things fall apart._

_Again. Some more._

"Brand?" Zevran prompted her in a low voice.

"I can't." She straightened up and joined him in the doorway. "We're close to the end. I don't want to risk losing anyone _now_."

"Except for yourself. And maybe me. I forgot how these things went with you. Maybe we'll get lucky, win, and there will be an exposed blade for you to fall on."

The recrimination in his words hit her.

"I don't want either of us to die, Zev," she pulled her cloak around her shoulders, the dragon clasp rough against her fingertips. It had been a gift from Varel and Fiona, given as an early Feast Day present before she and Anders had left for Amaranthine to begin this whole, mad affair. "I just want the ones I love to be safe."

"And you do not wish to let anyone else act on such a desire for you."

It was not a question, but she answered it anyway.

"No."


End file.
